Young and No Longer G-Rated (Jung und Nicht Mehr Jugendfrei)
by djinmi
Summary: A child Immortal struggles to learn the skills needed to survive in the hazardous world of sword-wielding pursuers. Physically only twelve-years old, he is already at a disadvantage. His wits are his most powerful weapon. Will they be enough to tip the scales in his favor?
1. Chapter 0 - The Highlander Universe

Quick note: This is NOT part of the story you are about to read. This is an introductory message I wrote to a reviewer months ago explaining how the Highlander universe works in my particular style of writing. You do not need to read this in order to understand the story as a whole. If you want, you can skip it. If not, read on.

xxxxxxxxxx

Here is a short version of how the Highlander universe works, at least the version of it that I use in my stories. My version developed over several years as I used to run a role-playing game based on the series and the game universe evolved over time. Here goes.

In this universe, Immortals exist. Except for the ability to live for a very long time (unless something kills them), and a few other selected traits, they are just like normal people. Immortals are genetic aberrations born to human parents. They age normally until a traumatic event - a first death - activates their immortality. In the movie and series, the first death must be violent; in my universe it does not. For example, for Jonny Fairbanks, a character in this story, his first death was as a result of being beaten to death when he was fourteen. However, one of his friends - and his first mentor - David Ashton, died for the first time as a result of drowning when he was thirty.

Once immortality is activated, the Immortal no longer ages. Any wounds received, even those that result in a temporary death, heal rapidly, either in seconds or, for those very severe injuries, several minutes. This means, of course, that essentially the Immortal is always healing at the cellular level. This results in an accelerated metabolism and the need for them to consume far more nutrients and calories than a normal human. Jonny, for example, eats between 4,000 and 5,000 calories per day; David Ashton, who is a world-class athlete, takes in double that amount just to maintain himself. This is why the Immortal Jack is following has lost so much weight, for example.

Because of their high healing factor, Immortals are very difficult to kill, but there is a way. In my universe, there are actually many, but I'll stick to the most common. The most well-known method of killing an Immortal is decapitation. This causes immediate death. Other ways of doing it, in my world, at least, are to prevent, in some way, the reanimation of the Immortal. Let's say, for example, the Immortal has been deeply buried (more than a few centimeters) and cannot breathe. In this case, there is no way for life to restart for the Immortal and, unless he is exhumed before decomposition begins, he will die.

If an Immortal is beheaded in the presence of another Immortal, another event besides just death occurs. This occurrence is similar to an electrical storm and is known as the Quickening (the Quickening is also a generic term for the lifeforce of an Immortal, but it is used to refer to this, as well). When this happens, it is said that all of the power of the dead Immortal is transferred to the nearby Immortal. If multiple Immortals are around, this transfer is to the closest one. The exception to this rule is if one of those Immortals was the killer of the now dead Immortal; in this case, he will receive the Quickening even if another Immortal is closer.

Why would one Immortal kill another, you may wonder? There is a belief among Immortals that, at some point in the future, only one Immortal can remain. This has led to a mantra among them: "There can be only one." Legend says that this final Immortal will receive "the Prize" though no one knows really what that is. Some say it is all the power and knowledge of all Immortals who have lived. Others say it is the power to rule the world. No one really knows. This deadly competition amongst Immortals has become known by them as "the Game."

Regardless, pursuit of "the Prize," or at least the desire to stay alive, has forced all Immortals to learn to fight. Nearly all of them adhere to an unwritten code of ethics when it comes to Immortal combat. It can be blades only, no firearms. There can be no mortal witnesses (this is sometimes violated). Once a challenge has been accepted, it cannot be withdrawn. Mercy is never expected and, if it occurs, is solely at the discretion of the victor. No combat may occur on holy ground (regardless of religion. For example, a cemetery, Buddhist temple, indian burial ground, and Catholic church are all treated the same).

In my universe, not all Immortals believe the Prize is real. However, since so many others do, they all train to fight and are force to play the Game even if it is just to survive. Ashton, Jonny, and most of their close friends are among these nonbelievers.

I mentioned that Immortals are genetic aberrations. Another trait of their abnormality is they are all sterile. None of them can cause pregnancy or become pregnant even before their immortality is activated. This is often a cause of distress for those Immortals who later marry mortals who wish to have children. It is completely impossible for them.

Immortals can also sense each other's' presence, whether it is a person who is immortal or someone who will become immortal (I describe it as their Quickenings, which is like an electrical aura, bumping against each other). This sensation is much weaker for pre-immortals, of course. From the movies and series, it seems like they notice each other at a distance from anywhere between ten and fifty meters. It seems to vary widely. I tend to describe it as an indication of the power of the Immortal's Quickening. Someone like David Ashton, for example, who has taken over two thousand heads during his four-thousand years of life, would seem more powerful than Jonny Fairbanks. By contrast, Jonny, who is a little over eight hundred years old, has taken slightly over one head per year of his life (he has been heavily hunted by other Immortals because, since he is a child, he is often perceived as an easy target). Both of them are very powerful, but two thousand is still greater than eight hundred (Jonny is also more ruthless than Ashton who sometimes lets his defeated opponents live; Jonny does not).

The movies and series show a lot of flashbacks as part of their storytelling. It is common for fanfiction to include flashbacks as additional scenes or even as parts of whole additional storylines. This brings to mind the question, at least in my mind, of Immortals' memories. If, in the movie or series, they are recalling an event from two hundred or two thousand years ago, are they actually remembering it eidetically or just in bits and pieces? I tend to go for the whole memory concept. To support this, I say, in my universe, that Immortals have superior memories than mortals do and can recall events from centuries ago almost perfectly.

There is more than just the goings-on of Immortals, though. There is also a secret ancient organization known as the Watchers prowling around the world. The Watchers, unlike most mortals, know about the existence of Immortals. Watchers are primarily historians who believe the world would lose a great part of its own history if the stories of Immortals' lives were to remain untold. For this reason, the historian Watchers developed the skills of spies and began to observe and record the histories of Immortals around the world, all the while never interfering with them or their deadly Game. If the existence of Immortals is a secret to mortals, an even greater secret is knowledge among Immortals that the Watchers exist.

In any group, you will find renegades. This is true for the Watchers, as well. There exists a faction, no one knows really how many, that believe the Immortals are a threat to mankind. Whether this threat is by claiming the Prize and taking over the world or perhaps as an evolutionary overpowering of mankind or some other method, none of the faction's members have coherently said. The only consistent argument among this group, known as Hunters, is they believe the entire Immortal race needs to be exterminated in order to protect humanity.

Since the Hunters are also Watchers and know the identities of the Immortals, they can easily track them. Being mortals, Hunters are not constrained by any of the rules or codes of ethics of the Immortals. They attack in packs, violate holy ground, use guns and tasers, and always take the Immortal's head when there are no other Immortals around. This assures that the transference of the Quickening never occurs and all that the dying Immortal ever was is lost. Again, since they are also Watchers, the Hunters are also typically able to conceal their illicit activities from the other Watchers.

Earlier I mentioned that I used to run an RPG based on the TV series. One of the ongoing storylines in that RPG was a war between the Watchers, Hunters, and Immortals. One of my first collaborative works, called Defend and Betray – which actually makes little sense unless you were playing the game at the time – was written during the game. I am currently trying to get permission from the person who originally developed the story to rewrite it in a more coherent style. This is actually what I want to write once my current project is complete.

After the aforementioned war ended, there were a lot of changes within the Watchers (in my version of the universe). New security measures were implemented across the organization, all Watchers were trained in self-defense, most of them were armed, and a new para-military arm, the Guardians, was formed. The Guardians were an anti-Hunter unit and, on very rare occasion, would even take out highly dangerous Immortals, as well.

Lastly, a covert partnership was formed between Watchers and Immortals. The result of this partnership was the Durgan Institute, a research organization devoted to better understanding Immortals. Most of the time, whenever I introduce something new into the universe, like the Immortals' metabolism or alternate ways of killing them, I make reference to Durgan Institute research as a basis for this radical new information.

I hope this brief introduction has proven helpful in understanding the story. If not, please drop a question or two my way.

DJ


	2. In Rapid Trot

A child Immortal struggles to learn the skills needed to survive in the hazardous world of sword-wielding pursuers. Physically only twelve-years old, he is already at a disadvantage. His wits are his most powerful weapon. Will they be enough to tip the scales in his favor?

Author's Note: This story contains spoilers for a separate fanfiction, _Highlander: Penance_ written by Knolltrey. That story can be found here: s/9599821/1/Highlander-Penance. The character of Penance Cameron is used by permission from his creator and has the grateful thanks from the author of this story.

Except for English, some German and some Spanish (and only smatterings of those), I do not speak the languages depicted in this story. Any mistakes are those of Google Translate and the intended meaning is shown in parentheses (unless left out for plot reasons).

For a PDF of character descriptions, you can go to HLRPG dot com /JUNMJ/JUNMJ-Character_ .

"Our army is a motley crew in dress and armor - duties, too;  
And each and all I love to see, though most I prize the Infantry.  
In tent, in field, in lady's bower,alike they shine - all fear their power;  
Though other corps are dear to me, yet most I love the Infantry."

"The Infantry" - Barnard E. Bee

17 April 2004  
West Coast of Florida, Werner-Boyce Salt Springs State Park

Sweat poured down Jack Connelly's face and neck, soaking his collar. He dabbed lightly at his face with a towel to wick away the worst of it but knew it was to no avail. He had spent enough time in the infantry to learn that perspiration was a constant on long foot marches. This would be no different.

 _So much for being out of the Army, eh, Jack? You're still tromping around in the swamps. And some of this is even worse than Fort Stewart._

True, he was out of the military now, if only for a few months, and just long enough to start growing a sweet goatee, if you ask him, thank you very much.

 _But, with all this field time, I can't keep it trimmed so it's getting all ratty. One thing you don't do in the field if you know what's good for you is shave._

He sought a location for his next footfall and then lifted one foot laboriously from the muck, avoiding as much of the slurping of the mud as he could, carefully moving to that next destination.

 _Slow and steady, but still keep an eye on the target. Have I really been doing this for two weeks?_

He had, indeed. The journey had been made all the more difficult by the fact that Jack was trailing another person, also on foot. Jack could not under any circumstance allow that person to know he was being tracked. Add to the fact that his quarry kept changing the environment in which Jack had to operate; sometimes it was it was a small town, the next day, across open fields; later it would be light forests or sucking swamps; now it was a state park with thick trees and several clumps of outbuildings; and Jack had quite the difficult task of remaining undetected.

The constant movement and lack of proper food was taking its toll on both of them. Jack could tell, however, the target was suffering from the same overall lack of nutrition he was. Since their trek had begun, his quarry looked like he had lost at least five kilograms (eleven pounds). His clothes hung much looser from his already slender frame and his already angular face was verging on skeletal.

Jack was having other issues, as well. All of the walking, even with changing his sock and boots regularly, had caused blisters to develop on his feet. He had a basic supply of moleskin and other treatments for this as part of his original packing list in the beginning, but it had been exhausted a few days ago. He had quickly purchased a box of generic band-aids at a Dollar General store two days before, but they were not quite up to the task. Jack's gait was beginning to suffer as a result.

 _I never walked this much even in the infantry. Even when I was doing a lot of road marches, I had a medic on call who had a fully-stocked aid bag with whatever might be needed to treat this sort of thing. Even worse, I don't know how much farther we have to go so it's difficult to prepare._ I don't even want to think about what my feet must look like. They feel like they've been torn apart.

The object of Jack's pursuit clearly was not any sort of big game; it was something far more dangerous. He was tracking an Immortal. Jack was a member of a little known international organization tasked with observing and recording the lives of these people. Often, this required following them as they trekked across the world. In this case, this Immortal had chosen, for whatever reason, to travel on foot through the the forests and swamps of central Florida.

Immortals, and the organization which kept records of their lives, the Watchers, had been around for thousands of years. How the former came to exist, no one knew, though there were many theories. The Watchers existed solely for the sake of keeping their histories since Immortals tended to keep their existence a secret from other mortals. This made sense due to the fact that mortals tended to be highly distrustful of what they did not understand. If they were to discover the Immortals primary weakness - that they could be killed via decapitation - witch hunts would spring up at the slightest provocation. In fact, it was believed several had throughout history.

Jack was relatively new to the Watcher Organization, but this was not his first experience with Immortals. In fact, he had had a brush with one and with the Watchers while he was in the Army.

xxxxxxxxxx

19 June 2002

Fort Stewart, Georgia

The night was brightly lit by the moon and stars. Jack and two of his squad mates were moving across a field during a live fire exercise. One of the Bradleys on the firing line was engaging a target with its 7.62mm coaxial machine gun when the traversing mechanism malfunctioned and swung too far to the right. The gunner inside the Bradley held the trigger down a moment too long before he realized the problem. Jack's helmet was grazed and the lead man in the team was hit in the arm. He fell to the ground, cursing vehemently. The other man in the team, a medic, ran up to assist the wounded man while Jack screamed, "Cease fire. Cease fire," over the first man's radio.

Jack and his two men were one thousand meters from the Bradley's firing point. The closest soldiers in other locations were even farther away. There would be several minutes before they arrived to assist. It was during these critical moments that Jack's reality shifted permanently. The first thing he noticed in the bright moonlight was the odd blue tattoo on the left wrist of his team medic. It was composed of two concentric circles with twelve evenly spaced dots filling its circumference. Inside the second circle was a strange curved cross, almost like two eagles standing back to back.

 _Strange that I've never really seen that before._

The second oddity to cross Jack's consciousness was two-fold. First, he heard his radioman, Specialist Cannon, the who had be shot, muttering, "It's okay, Sergeant. No need to worry."

Second, he saw his medic, Specialist Merrick, cutting away Cannon's blood-soaked sleeve and exposing a compound fracture, and saying, "Don't pay attention to him. He's in shock." A moment later, Merrick ground the sleeve deep into the red, Georgia clay until it was no longer visible.

"What the fuck are you doing, Merrick?"

"I'll explain later, Sergeant. There's no time right now."

He was right. Merrick only had time to forcefully set the arm, wipe away the blood and make sure Cannon was coherent again before soldiers from range control showed up to investigate. After that, there seemed to be hundreds of questions, the least of which was what happened to Cannon's sleeve. To Jack's amazement, there was no wound.

 _But I saw a shitload of blood and a bone sticking out of his arm…didn't I?_

After Merrick convinced everyone he had cut away Cannon's sleeve in a fruitless search for a wound that wasn't there, the attention turned to the ripped material off Jack's Kevlar helmet. "Another half inch to the right," said a sergeant, "and it really would have rung your bell. You were damn lucky."

The training exercise was cancelled for the remainder of the night in favor of sworn statements and accident reports. After Jack's part of the whole affair was complete, his wrist and fingers sore from writing several reports by hand, he tracked down Specialist Merrick and pulled him aside.

"Okay, Merrick, I need to know what the hell happened out there. I don't mean the misfire. I mean that whole fucked up affair with Cannon getting shot, you pulling his arm like you were charging an M240 machine gun, and then his wound disappearing. Hell, I saw the look in Cannon's eyes when you were about to set it. He realized something about you. I could see it in his expression. He nodded at you and gritted his teeth. He barely moaned; he didn't even scream. I'd have been crying like a little girl if you yanked me around like that. What the hell is going on here?"

"Okay, Sergeant," said Merrick. "I'll tell you what I can right now. There is a lot you'll need to know and not enough time to tell you all of it at the moment." Merrick paused. "There is also an obligation, if I do tell you."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "An obligation?"

Merrick raised his left arm and pulled down his sleeve to expose his wrist, revealing the tattoo again. "You have to become one of us."

Seven simple words and Jack had been curious enough to bite when the bait had been offered. Merrick sighed and then began to speak.

"Well, Sergeant, there are people among us who have special abilities, like to live forever and regenerate after injuries."

"Like the X-Men?"

"Yeah, sure, like the X-Men, if they also went around killing each other for sport."

"Oh, so... not like the X-men."

"Well, kind of like Wolverine..."

To Jack's amazement, the story got stranger from there. His jaw dropped as Merrick continued to talk. It got so strange, in fact, that he barely noticed the other three men gather nearby. When he finally did realize it, he was about to question Merrick, but then realized his company first sergeant was one of the three men in the group. He went to the position of parade rest.

"First Sergeant Haskell, what is this?"

Stanley Haskell motioned for Jack to stand at ease. "For the moment, Jack, we're all on a first name basis. This is a totally different brotherhood than the Army that you're joining, a closer one. We're here to talk your oath. Let's step over here where it's a little more private. You know Charles Raines and Ralph McNabb, right?"

"Yes, First Sergeant, er, uhm, I mean, Stanley. Sorry. It's a bit weird." Haskell chuckled as they walked. "They're the first and third platoon sergeants for our company so, of course, I know their faces. I've not worked with them that closely, though."

"Well, you'd be amazed how many Immortals are in the U.S. Army, Jack. As a result, so are we Watchers. It's a good supplement to our income, too, which is pretty nice in itself. Charles and Ralph are not the only ones in the company, by the way. You'll learn move about that later. Anyway, we're going to take your oath tonight."

They stood in a small room of the range control tower, temporarily secluded. Out of habit, Jack came to the position of attention. No one questioned it. He raised his right hand and repeated the words read to him. When he was finished, the four men embraced him as a brother and welcomed him. Broad smiles were on all faces. Jack wondered what he had just done.

"Okay, Jack," added Haskell, "tomorrow morning Charles is going to schedule your training for when you depart the Army. We're going to let you finish your enlistment, but you'll go to our academy as soon as you're done here. Understood?"

Jack nodded. "Understood."

That departure, however, was not as soon as originally planned. Jack's period of active enlistment was set to expire on 8 April 2003. The 3rd Infantry Division, on the other hand, had been ordered to deploy overseas to Iraq. The military has the ability to retain soldiers "for the convenience of the government" in such situations. Jack found himself with his enlistment involuntarily extended until the end of the deployment plus one hundred eighty days. He was off to Iraq.

Ninety days after his return from Iraq and to the surprise of everyone, especially his chain of command regarding such a promising soldier, in December of 2003, Sergeant John Patrick "Jack" Connelly requested and was granted terminal leave from United States Army. After taking two weeks to get his bearings and acquire a short-term lease on an apartment, he began his training with the Watchers.

The training he received was nothing short of mind blowing. Immortals were everywhere and they spanned the full range of human possibility, some good and some pure evil. That was just the Immortal history part of the training. Next came an introduction to ancient languages which would be essential to understanding the older chronicles of Immortal lives and other documents. Here, Jack found his language proficiency useful once again. He never though he would find himself deciphering Linear B symbols when he was in high school. After the language training came surveillance and trailing techniques, camouflage, radio communications, map reading, and land navigation. Most of this came easily to Jack since it was simply a different version of what he had already been doing in the infantry. The basic techniques were the same, only the equipment was different. It was the last part of the standardized training which Jack did not expect: firearms and self-defense training.

Finally, in March of 2004, Jack completed his basic Watcher training. He was practically drooling for his first assignment. Who would it be? A six-hundred-year-old former pirate turned politician? A thousand-year-old Yakuza member working as an executive for Toyota? What he did not expect was…more training?

Apparently, his first assignment – he still did not know who it was – had significant outdoor survival skills and regularly lived off the land for extended periods of time. Jack's next three weeks were a crash course in outdoor survival and improvised shelters. Contrary to what one would assume, this was not something which Jack had learned in the military. Despite being disappointing at not yet receiving his assignment, Jack was fascinated by this new information. The infantry honor graduate showed his colors by excelling once again. He was actually starting to get comfortable in his lean-to and nibbling on his daily scrounging of food when he was interrupted by one of his instructors.

"Class is over, Connelly. You're going to Birmingham."


	3. The Waiting

"The waiting is the hardest part  
Every day you see one more card  
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart  
The waiting is the hardest part"

"The Waiting" – Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers

27 March 2004  
Birmingham, Alabama

Like all Greyhound bus stations, this one was no bastion of traveling comfort. Still, surmised Jack, it beat walking and he suspected there was going to be a good bit of that in his future. The recommended packing list he had received from the quartermaster indicated that much. Even though he had physically done so several times before actually stowing everything into the oversized backpack – almost a civilian rucksack - at his feet, this time Jack mentally inventoried its contents. Most concerning for Jack were the weapons he was carrying. Since the war, all field Watchers were required to be armed and Jack was no exception. Beneath his lightweight jacket, he wore a Sig Sauer P226 9mm pistol in a shoulder holster. A Smith and Wesson SWHRT9B 23 centimeter (9-inch) steel fixed blade knife resided in one of his backpack's outer pockets. Despite having a concealed carry permit for his weaponry, being caught with such hardware, three extra magazines, a silencer for the pistol in his left jacket pocket, and forty additional rounds of ammunition could still be an awkward situation.

Jack ticked off the more mundane items on his list as he glanced at his watch. The Watcher current assigned to this Immortal would arrive any moment now. Jack squirmed a bit on the plastic-coated metal seats and settled in to wait. As he knew from the Army, a scheduled time for an event and the time it actually happened were often quite different things. He closed his eyes, an old infantry habit kicking in almost at once. Some attributed it to Winston Churchill, but he wasn't sure. _Never run when you can walk. Never walk when you can stand. Never stand when you can sit. Never sit when you can lay down. Never lay down when you can sleep._

He had only dozed for a few minutes when something made him open his eyes. Maybe it was just that he was slumping in his chair. Regardless, he noticed two men, one blond and one dark-haired, were walking toward him and sat up a bit straighter. The taller of the two, the older one with brown hair, spoke first. "John Connelly?"

Jack stood. "Yes," he replied, extending his hand. "Jack, please."

"Jack. I'm Glen Simonetti." They shook hands. Jack turned to face the blond man.

"And I'm Mike Swenor. How was your stay at the Radisson?"

As code phrases went, this was about as innocuous as one could get, Jack thought. "It's certainly not the Hilton, but not bad at all."

"Shall we sit, then?" asked Glen.

"Absolutely," agreed Jack. He eyed to two men with confusion. He lowered his voice slightly. "Two of you to watch one Immortal. What kind of trouble is this guy?"

Glen chuckled. "Nothing like that. I'm his actual Watcher. He just has some skills I don't."

"And what exactly are those?" asked Jack, easing slowly back into the metal seats as the two men reposed on either side of him.

"To put it simply, I'm a hacker."

Before Jack could respond to that, Glen interjected, "Ah, there he is now," and gestured slightly toward the door. The three men fixed their attention in that direction.

A laughing teenager in a college jersey, following a smaller boy holding a plain blue ball cap in his hand, came through the door. They were obviously sharing a joke between themselves. The taller boy leaned down and mussed the smaller one's hair, whispering something in his ear. This elicited a huge grin from the younger boy.

"The college student?" asked Jack. "He looks like he's about nineteen. How old is he really?"

It was Glen's turn to chuckle. "No, he probably is nineteen. I mean the boy in front of him with the backpack over his shoulder."

Jack's heart sank with disappointment as his eyes fell on his first assignment. He saw a small, slender boy, about one hundred forty-seven centimeters (four feet, ten inches) tall and weighing perhaps forty kilograms (eighty-eight pounds). He had long, light brown hair down to his eyebrows in front and almost to his collar in the back. His eyes, which were currently scanning everything in the station with interest and, dare Jack say it, more than a little suspicion, were much darker, deeper brown. The boy was dressed for casual travelling. Jack figured the boy could have been a singer from a Disney channel band or maybe a model out of a fashion magazine under different circumstances. _There are certainly plenty of other no-talent pretty faces out there now. Why couldn't he have had a shot, too?_ _Instead, people are trying to cut off his head._

The boy's survey of the people within the bus station apparently complete, he chirped, "Bye, Roger, and thanks for the company," to his college buddy with another grin and an arm around the student's waist for effect. Roger squeezed the boy's shoulder, mumbled something the Watchers couldn't hear, and wandered away. After a moment, the boy's grin faded and he turned his head slightly to focus his eyes on the electronic schedule board on the wall.

 _I take back what I said about no talent,_ thought Jack. "Wow," he said aloud.

"So, you see it, too?" asked Glen.

"Yeah, the kid's a natural actor."

"It's a common trait of child Immortals, if they hope to stay alive, that is. This one is not very old, but he trying to learn whatever he can to improve his odds. That's actually why I had to call in Mike's help."

Jack swiveled to face Mike. "Why is that?"

"Because the kid has been living with a family of hackers in Tuscaloosa for the last twenty months or so learning everything they had to teach him. Glen needed someone who could track what he was doing and have some chance of not getting detected." Mike thumped his chest. "That would be me. And the boy was a quick learner, he went from not knowing what an operating system was to surpassing his teachers in less than two years."

Mike leaned forward in his seat, his speech becoming more animated but still low enough in volume so that only the other two men could hear him. "The kid is actually quite impressive. I've got a log of everything he's done since I came on with Glen, not that you'd especially be interested or, no offense, be able to understand it. Let's just say he's no script kiddie. Oh, sorry. He's not some kid who uses other people's programs to attack systems or bypass security. He does it himself. In fact, just last night, I watched," Mike used air quotes when he said the word, "him break into his foster parents' and leave behind a little program. I copied it a took a look at it. Quite a nice piece of work, actually. In two weeks, it will activate, log into the foster father's employer through a series of relays, and promote him to the next pay grade. All of the electronic documentation needed to substantiate the change will be generated and added to his record, as well. Even his original hiring agreement will be modified to say the promotion was part of the original plan all along. All nice, sealed, delivered, and official. All documentation at this firm is electronic. No one can contest it. Right?"

Jack grinned. "How much is the change in pay grade?"

"About eighteen thousand dollars per year."

"Whoa. That's not small change. Someone's going to notice that."

"Maybe," said Mike. "Not really our concern."

"No," added Glen, producing a folder from his travel bag. "Our, or rather, at this point, your, concern is that boy who is now sitting in that seat on the other side of the station. This is a summary of his record. It will be some good reading while you're waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"To figure out where he's going next."

Mike supplied, "The first leg of the journey was easy. He must have worked it out with his foster parents and they booked it online. We have no idea where he's going after this."

"We don't even know how he's going to get a ticket," added Glen, pointing vaguely in the boy's direction. "He's obviously planning on waiting around for a while and getting someone to buy a ticket for him. Why else would he have chosen a seat that is relatively obscured from the front desk and pulled out a book? He's ready to wait a while."

Jack's curiosity was greater than his disillusionment over being assigned a child Immortal. "Why did he leave his family? It sounds like he had a good thing going?"

"Time for one thing," answered Glen. "Child Immortals have time working against more so than other Immortals do, namely the fact they're not growing. How do you explain that?"

"Good point," admitted Jack.

"Paranoia is another factor, I'd bet," interjected Mike. "That's another trait you see in child Immortals. It just makes sense; you're smaller and weaker than the adults so of course you're afraid."

"Yes," resumed Glen. "When child Immortals find a family, they rarely stay very long and they tend to be wary of adult Immortals. If they're able to find someone to train them, they might - and that's a long might - have a better chance of survival, but they're odds are bad from the start.

"There are a few who have managed to live for a while. It's considered a milestone for a child Immortal whose first death was before adolescence to survive to their twenty-fifth year, even twentieth. For adolescent Immortals fifty or at best one hundred years is considered a stretch. There are a few dozen who have managed to do it, though. Then we have those who break the odds. There are only four right now who are currently over one hundred years old. Care to hear who they are?"

Jack nodded, his inquisitiveness growing.

"Well, let's see. We have Alyssa Cordeiro, physically aged fifteen, who will be two hundred fifty-two this year. She's actually in Tampa, Florida right now. Next, we have Glenquah Akram, physically aged fifteen, who is one hundred ninety-three now. He is in Johannesburg, South Africa at the moment. Next is Kenneth Hastings, physically aged eleven, who is about eight hundred thirty by now, give or take. No one really knows in what month he was born. He's somewhere in Utah right now, I think. Then we have Jonathan Fairbanks, physically aged fourteen, who will turn eight hundred six in June. He's currently in England living with David Ashton."

Jack blinked at the mention of that name. Glen grinned. "I see you remember some of your training."

"I remember both of the names, Ashton and Fairbanks. They were both prominent in the war."

"Yes, we actually have a pool on Fairbanks at the moment whether he'll take his 'one-to-grow-on' head before June. Care to join?"

Jack smirked and snorted. "His what?"

Glen returned the grin. "As you know, Jack, we Watchers track everything, including how many heads an Immortal has taken. Jonny Fairbanks currently has a confirmed count equal to his age in June, eight hundred six. Two or three hundred more unconfirmed."

Jack's jaw dropped. "My God. That's insane! An immortal his age would normally have one twentieth of that or even less."

"Good," replied Glen. "I see you were paying attention in class. And you're right. You could say our Jonny is the inverse of the typical child Immortal. He is hunted because he is small and appears weak. His training and personality prove him to be otherwise."

"What do you mean his personality?"

"His philosophy of combat." Glen held one finger in the air and pointed it back at himself. "A fair fight, isn't. He believes in making the fight as unfair for his opponent as possible, just like his opponent would against him."

Jack guffawed. "I could like this kid."

Glen nodded. "I'm positive you would. I was his Watcher for a few years before the war back when he lived in the States. He was a good kid. Trouble still followed him and he did have a penchant for dabbling in illicit substances now and then. Chasing the girls was a given, of course, but overall, not a bad boy. We're getting distracted, though. We should be talking about your boy."

"Right," breathed Jack, leaning back in his chair.

"Don't be too discouraged," added Glen. "It's a rare thing to be assigned to a child Immortal. Very few of us get this opportunity and those of us who do typically don't get to do it for long...for obvious reasons."

Jack nodded silently and swallowed as the morbid realization hit him. _Yeah, they usually don't live that long._ "How old is this one?"

"Physically, he's twelve. In actual years, he just turned forty-four. His birthday was the seventeenth of this month."

"What's his name?"

"His real name or the name he's been using most recently?"

"Both."

"His most recent name is Trent Carson. However, Mike and I still call him by his given name, Tristan. Tristan Dahl."


	4. Welcome to the Jungle

"You know where you are?  
You're down in the jungle baby  
You're gonna die  
In the jungle. Welcome to the jungle"

"Welcome to the Jungle" – Guns N' Roses

27 March 2004  
Birmingham, Alabama

"There is one more child Immortal I should mention," stated Glen. "More of an honorable mention since, sadly, he's no longer with us. Out of respect, we use his preferred name rather than his given name. Forgive us our quirks. He went by the name of Penance Cameron. He was five hundred eighty-five years old when he was killed in 1984. I bring him up because he had a significant influence on Tristan over there. They were friends when Tristan suffered his first death. They were the same physical age and Tristan spent his first three years as an Immortal with Penance. Tristan even picked up some of Penance's habits and idiosyncrasies. Somehow, and I'm not sure how, Tristan even knows that Penance is dead."

"Penance," repeated Jack. "Kind of an odd name, isn't it?"

"Like I said, the boy had his idiosyncrasies. He was before my time, but I have read his chronicles. They're a fascinating read. You should really take a look at them when you get a chance, not just the parts that overlap with Tristan but the entire thing. They'll give you quite an insight into child Immortals and their unique psychology. You know, a few years ago, I heard a rumor there might be a group of Watchers specializing in Immortal psychology. I wonder if there was any truth to that. Hmmmm..."

Glen let himself pontificate for a moment before shaking his head and continuing. "Anyway, you need to take this." He handing Jack the folder. It has a summary of Tristan's record from birth up to a yesterday.

"We tried to be thorough," grinned Mike.

"Thanks," said Jack, hefting the thick manila file. It had to contain at least forty pages. He certainly had some reading to do. "I'd say so. Quite a bit of homework I have here. Should keep me busy while I'm on the bus." Jack looked around the station. "Once I know what bus I'm supposed to be on, that is."

Glen smiled again. "You'll have to wait for Tristan to make the first move there. Neither Mike nor I were able to pick up any hint of where he means to go after Birmingham. We know he has a plan. He always does, even if it's just to wander around the southeastern United States which he's done in the past. We don't think that's his intention, but we can't say for sure."

Mike piped in, as well. "Yeah, I kind of wonder if maybe he was starting to pick up on my spying on him toward the end. It seemed like he was getting a lot more cautious or maybe he was just getting more skilled. Anyway, I saw nothing at all other than his foster parents buying the bus ticket to Birmingham two days ago that gave us any warning at all."

"So to sum it all up, we're just sitting here with our thumbs up our asses waiting for the kid to put his book down and decide to do something. Is that what you're saying, guys?"

Mike and Glen said nothing. They looked at each other, back at Jack, and then broke into laughter. "That's about it. Exactly," said Glen between chuckles.

"Well, while I'm waiting, I might as well do some of the homework you guys have mentioned. Do you have that chronicle for Penance Cameron you mentioned?"

Mike reached into his bag and pulled out a CD-ROM. Only the letters P.C. were stamped on the cover. "I presume your laptop has a drive for this. The files are encrypted. The password is obvious for anyone who knows what it is." He said Penance's real first name, five syllables in Spanish. "Capitalize the first letter. Can you remember that?"

"I believe so. It's fairly simple." Jack repeated that name several times mentally to be sure of himself. "Yes, I've got it. Any special software needed?"

"Good. The software is resident on the disc. It will run when you open the files."

"Is this something I can read here?"

"Shouldn't be an issue" answered Glen. "Except for the first page which has his Immortal statistics, the rest is a biography of his life. As long as you move somewhere in the station where a casual observer can only see that you're reading text and can only see bits and pieces of it, there won't be a real problem." Glen looked around the station. "I don't really see a spot where you can plug into power except around the walls back there. Sitting on the floor won't the most comfortable of seating, but you've sat on worse in your life, haven't you?

"That's the truth," replied Jack with another smirk.

"Just be careful typing in the password," cautioned Mike. "There's a file on the disc designed to use the CD drive's laser to burn it up in two seconds if the password is entered incorrectly three times. It'll probably burn out the drive, as well, but we've got to have our security after all."

Jack's smile only widened as he shook his head and laughed - mostly - silently. "Hopefully, I won't be tripping that failsafe. My memory's not that bad."

"What? I thought you were infantry," blurted Glen, beaming.

"Yeah, but you guys taught me how to read and write so now I'm disqualified," retorted Jack immediately with another chuckle as he picked up his backpack. With a glance toward Tristan, he added, "Looks like the kid's not going anywhere for awhile. I might as well get to reading this thing. Thanks for the info."

"Yep," said Mike, standing and offering his hand again. "It's been a pleasure. Good luck, Jack."

"Thanks, Mike" They shook warmly. Jack turned to Glen.

Standing and taking Jack's hand, Glen counseled, "Be careful, though, Jack. Tristan is a sharp. He's small and easy to underestimate, yes, but he has learned to use that to his advantage, too. Keep your wits about you. He's just as crafty as an adult, maybe more so because his mind is not bound by adult constraints. Reading the Penance file first is a good idea. Tristan learned from a trickster and added his own flair to it. You'll see what I mean. Take care."

"I appreciate it, Glen. I'll study all of this carefully and take it to heart. You guys won't regret your hard work. Thanks for coming out here to meet me. Good luck on your next assignment."

With a nod, both of the older Watchers gathered their bags and unobtrusively merged into the crowd of the bus station, silently disappearing within it. Jack glanced over at Tristan once more, saw the boy was still absorbed in his book, and moved toward the back wall, choosing a spot where he could still see his quarry, target, assignment. _What word should I use to describe him? I'm not sure._

He pulled the laptop from the backpack and extracted it from its protective casing. Switching it on and logging in was not a problem. Other than a fingerprint verification on a built-in scanner, there no real security on it because there was nothing on the computer itself that was proprietary to the Watcher organization except for the virtual private network and encryption software and he had memorized the information necessary to utilize that when it was necessary. He inserted the CD into the disc drive and opened the list of the drive's files. Clicking on the PC_Chronicle_Summary file started a series of interesting reactions within the computer as a series of programs began to run from the disc. Finally, a prompt came up for him to enter a password. Jack took another quick look in Tristan's direction before typing in Penance's real name.

The chronicle itself was massive. Even though it claimed to be only a summary, it was still almost two hundred pages. My God, how long is the actual chronicle? _Well, the boy did live for nearly five hundred years. A lot can happen in that time. Well, let's get to reading, Jack, old boy._

Always a fast reader, Jack got through the first one hundred fifty pages in two hours while still stealing furtive glance Tristan's way every few minutes. Eventually, though, he had to rest his eyes. Besides, nature was calling. Shutting down the laptop for now, he packed it away and shouldered his rucksack, heading for the restroom. He did his best to walk naturally. He would have to pass right by Tristan on his way. He decided it best to not even look as the boy as he walked. _Why would I, as a normal person in this bus station, have any interest in this kid anyway?_

As he walked, Jack reflected on what he had read. Penance Cameron had been clever, resourceful, ruthless, and - from Jack's perception - often unfortunate. His sheer stubbornness and habit of never laying down any roots - of always moving from place to place after only a year or less - seemed to have helped keep him alive over the centuries. Throughout his life, at least what Jack had read so far, there had only been two exceptions to this rule. Is this what he had taught Tristan? _Is this kind of constant movement what I have to look forward to for the next several years?_

Jack considered all of this as he exited the restroom. He still had the last eighty years of Penance's life still to read and, of course, he still had to read the file on Tristan, but he could take a break for now. He decided to distract himself by buying a soda. The nearby vending machine dispensed bottles with resealable caps. _Well, that will be useful on the bus, if we get on one soon, that is._ Jack put his pack down by his feet and examined his options. He extracted some coins from his pocket, inserted them, made his selection, and bent down to retrieve his bottle.

As he straightened, Jack noticed some movement in the periphery of his vision. When he turned his head slightly, he saw that Tristan had put down his book and was walking in the direction of a group of teenage girls. Perhaps they were high school students, maybe college, it was difficult to tell. Jack picked up his pack and meandered toward a column somewhat in their direction. He was close enough that he would be able to overhear their conversation if he were really paying attention over the noise of the station, but far enough that he could still appear to be just another guy waiting for his bus to depart, he hoped anyway.

As he listened, one thing was confirmed in Jack's mind. This boy should have been an actor. He was a master. Almost from the start, he had the girls leaning down to his level, huge grins on their faces, wondering what they could do the help this beautiful boy in front of them. The expression on Tristan's face was completely unlike the one he had worn with Roger. Gone was the chipper smile and laughter. Instead was a dour look of abandonment and helplessness.

"I wonder," he sniffed, "if maybe one of you could help me." He pulled a small flip phone out of his pocket and waved it in front of him. I just got a call from my uncle. He's a doctor and just got called into emergency surgery so he won't be able to meet me here and ride with me to Tallahassee. Could one of you ride with me? I can pay for the ticket. I just can't buy it myself. I can pay. I have the money. Are any of you going that way? Could one of you help me, please?" With those last few words, Tristan looked like he was so scared he was on the verge of tears.

Jack turned his head and took a sip from his drink to hide his grin. _So he was waiting for this, one or more gullible teens who would fall for the abandoned child act. You're good, kid._

And it was working. A ponytailed brunette girl of no more than twenty knelt in front of him and lightly brushed a tear he had somehow coaxed from an eye off his face. "Oh, honey, of course, we can help you. Sam and I go to Florida State in Tallahassee so we're going there anyway. Isn't that right, Sam?" She looked up at her friend.

A tall girl with shoulder length blonde hair nodded her head as she also took a kneeling position in front of Tristan. "Mandy is right, baby," she cooed. At a twitch on Tristan's face, she corrected herself with a giggle and reached out to give him a light hug. "Sorry. Of course, we can help you. And don't worry about the money. I'll take care of it. I'll never hear the end of it from the other girls," she looked playfully back at her friends as she said this, "if I let you spend your own money."

Sam got more serious. "If we get your ticket and ride with you, will there be someone to pick you up?"

Tristan brightened instantly. "Oh, yeah." He waved the phone again. "I'll call ahead and let Dad know when we're getting there."

 _You little devil,_ thought Jack, taking another sip.

"Alright, dear," said Sam. "You make that call and we'll get your ticket. Oh, what's your name, by the way?"

"Tristan," supplied the smiling boy through misty eyes. "Tristan Dahl."

"He certainly is a doll," whispered one of the other girls. This elicited several giggles from the group.

Mandy checked her watch. "Well, Tristan, my new little friend, we were just discussing something when you walked up. Since we showed up so early, we still have almost two hours before our bus leaves. How about we walk down to John's City Diner about two blocks from here and have lunch before we go. My treat. What do you think?"

"Really?" beamed Tristan.

"Of course."

Tristan almost exploded. "Thank you so much," he burst as he leapt and caught both girls in a hug around their necks. The five girls behind them responded with a series of "Awws" and giggles.

Sam and Mandy slowly pried the small boy from them, although their expressions made it plain it was reluctantly, and Mandy added, "Now you make your call, dear. We'll go to lunch after we get your ticket."

"Okay," nodded Tristan, white teeth gleaming. He pointed at his bag back at his seat. "I'll be right over there," he said and began walking back, unflipping the phone and punching numbers on its panel before bringing it to his ear. A loudspeaker announced the arrival of a bus from Atlanta as this time so no one could hear what he said but everyone would he his ecstatic grin and the gleeful energy with which he was practically jumping around his bag. As the announcement ended, he nodded and said, "Okay, Dad, I'll see you soon. I love you. Bye bye." He flipped the phone closed and put it back in his pocket.

 _Like I said, kid, you're good. Was the phone even on?_

As the girls came to collect their new companion, waving his ticket triumphantly, Jack moved casually toward the ticket counter. His gaze moved from shoulder level to the schedule board on the wall. The bus to Tallahassee would be leaving at 1320 local time. It was currently 1139. As hungry as he was, he would not be following the group of girls to the diner they had mentioned. For one thing, it would be too easy for any of them to spot him. Secondly, as unhealthy as it was, he could make do with the vending machines at the station while he continued his reading. It would be a good way to pass the time anyway. Tristan and his college pals would have to come back here at least half an hour before the bus departed so it was not like he was going to lose them. He stood in line and waited as the chattering girls and the smiling boy filed out of the station and walked to the diner.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack took his time reading the last eighty years of Penance's chronicle summary. The boy had quite a few interesting events in his life from the 1940s through the 1980s. _What was the old curse? May you live in interesting times?_ From befriending a child Immortal in the forties that "didn't work out" to use Penance's words, a one-day run-in with Jonathan Fairbanks in 1962 during which Fairbanks apparently tried to assist him but was rejected, to meeting and mentoring Tristan Dahl in the seventies, and his final journeys and ultimate demise in 1984. In the end, it was a sad, yet somehow, strangely, uplifting tale of a troubled child who fought through adversity and finally, to paraphrase his own words, came home. Jack found himself thinking that if there was ever a story of a person dying a good death then this was it.

He leaned back against the wall, extending his legs fully across the floor. His eyes went vacant as his mind went deep into thought. There was so much he had learned but still so much he did not know.

 _So what did you teach Tristan during this time, Penance? You have a lot of experience you could pass on to him. This chronicle mentions that you two were pals and that you two were together for three years after he became Immortal, but not what he learned from you. Glen said you were a trickster and I saw that. I can see that in Tristan, too, but is that all? What other secrets are you hiding? I wish I had time to read your complete chronicle. You were definitely a fascinating boy._

Jack had just repacked everything to his satisfaction when the girls had returned with Tristan. The clock on the wall showed they still had thirty-two minutes before departure time. As an old habit, Jack donned his pack and jumped up and down twice. There was no sound from the contents. He smiled. He had packed perfectly. He wasn't sure if he would need to move about with any degree of silence, but it was best to be prepared nonetheless.

 _Speaking of being prepared…_ He walked once more to the restroom, his ticket and Tristan't file clutched in his left hand. _What did everyone's mother always tell you to do before a trip?_

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack was one of the first on the bus and took a seat in the back after stowing his pack in the overhead bin. He kept only the file and his soda with him. Boarding was orderly, for the most part. There was some debate a few seats in front of him from the college girls over who would get to sit next to Tristan during the trip. Sam won the argument in the end. To her surprise, she got the window seat and Tristan opted for the aisle. Everyone was sure the boy would want to look out the window as they travelled. Tristan just grinned and held up his thick paperback. "I still have half of this to go," he said."

"What are you reading?" inquired Sam.

Tristan flipped the book around to display the title, ' _Salem's Lot_ by Stephen King.

"Ooh, isn't that a bit mature for a boy like you?" accused Sam.

"Nah, some of his stuff, like _Eyes of the Dragon_ is actually written for kids. This is pretty good. It's pretty cool so far. It's about vampires. Besides, as we travel, night is going to fall and it's going set some nice _mood lighting._ " His voice dropped ever so slightly with those last two words and had the desired effect as several of them shivered before dropping into their seats.

When everyone was sitting down, the driver came on the intercom and made the usual pre-trip announcements. They then set out precisely on time. Jack settled in for the seven and a half hour trip. The girls seated around Tristan were a bit more energetic, though. They were chatting happily and one, Mandy, would occasionally reach across the aisle to give him a light tickle. The musical sound of his laughter only drove the girls to further antics. After a while, a game one of them dubbed "musical laps" ensued, as one of them produced and iPod with speakers and began playing songs. With each song, Tristan would sit in another girl's lap and squirm merrily like a smiling little puppy. Additional tickles and hugs would elicit further giggles from the boy and the girls themselves. The surrounding passengers' smiles displayed their own enjoyment of the game. Jack couldn't suppress his own grin, either.

The group quieted down after about half an hour and began to drift off into naps. Tristan, still smiling, returned to his seat and his book. After waiting about half an hour for the passenger next to him to get sufficiently bored and begin to doze, he flipped open his folder on Tristan and began to read. He passed the next hour shuffling pages and listening to the light snoring of his travel companion.


	5. A Wandering Maze

"It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life  
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife  
And it's all there to see as the section reveals  
There's some sorrow in every life"

"The Book of My Life" -Sting

27 March 2004  
Tallahassee, Florida

There were some interesting facts in the file. Tristan had been born in Clearwater, Florida, the only child to two university literature professors. Penance had actually been a school friend of his for about a year prior to his becoming Immortal and had enjoyed a pleasant relationship with not only his foster parents at the time but Tristan's parents, as well. They had apparently accepted him as a second son in their home and treated him as one of their own. He seemed to blossom under this attention.

Unlike many Immortals, whose first deaths were due to violent causes, Tristan's had been a result of a normal childhood accident, a fall while climbing a tree. He awoke to find his friend, Penance, sitting next to him, waiting expectantly, with a sad but understanding expression on his face. It actually took Penance several days to convince Tristan of the fact of his Immortality and that it was best for him to leave his family.

The next part of the file was difficult for Jack to read. In fact, he didn't even want to contemplate it. He forced himself through the shocking paragraphs about the boys' departure from Clearwater while practically holding his breath. His respiration did not return to normal until the boys were further north and Tristan was beginning to come to terms with his new reality. _There's one secret I didn't expect from you, Penance._

During the next three years, the boys slowly moved north until they finally arrived in Atlanta, Georgia. At this point, either something happened or they just came to a mutual understanding. Either way, the two of them parted ways, apparently still as friends which seemed a rare thing for Penance, at least. The file did not say where Penance went. Jack's mind was already muddled with so many facts that he could not recall himself. As he kept reading, he saw that Tristan kept wandering northeast until he reached North Carolina. By then it was 1978 and he must have grown weary of living on the streets. He either allowed himself to be caught or he walked into a foster care office, the file didn't say which, around this time, and was very quickly assigned to a family. This family, a pair of German-speaking Americans with no children of their own, took care of him for the next fifteen months.

The file did not say why Tristan left the German family eventually. It was probably the time factor, as always. _Poor kid._ He wandered west this time, ending up in Kentucky where he had no real roots for nearly four years. In 1983, he started moving again and after a few months found himself in Baltimore. By happenstance, he was reunited briefly with Penance. By all accounts, it was a happy, if short, reunion which only lasted a few weeks. Penance had some other events in his life which necessitated his leaving Baltimore soon afterward. A few months later, again the file did not say how, Tristan was somehow informed of Penance's death just two weeks earlier.

The news of his friend's killing must have shattered Tristan. The writer of the chronicle stated that, with his only friendly connection to the Immortal world lost, Tristan was without any sort of compass and "wandered north as if in a daze for weeks." The boy rarely ate or drank more than enough to barely subsist himself during this time. Finally, upon reaching the border to New York state, the chronicler stated that Tristan "froze, again as if in a daze and, after staring across the border for half an hour with no movement whatsoever, for no apparent reason, turned around and headed south again, as if the spell were now broken."

Tristan continued to live on the streets, much as his mentor had, for the next six years, until he finally found another foster family in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Sadly, he only stayed with them for one year before he moved on again. The chronicler did not give a reason but implied that there may have been an accident in which Tristan was injured. _Perhaps seeing a boy recover from a grievous wound in just a few minutes was too much of a shock for them, if that's what happened._

A year later, Tristan was in Dalton, Georgia and had found a new home with a retired Army soldier by the name of Matthew Woodham. This soldier, a Vietnam veteran with a long career in Special Forces, had deduced something unique about Tristan early in their relationship and soon knew about his Immortality. This was the only time Tristan lived with a family for an extended time, in this case, four years. During that time, he absorbed as much as he could from Woodham regarding living off the land, map reading, land navigation, traps, and improvised shelters.

 _Now I see why I had all that specialized training. Special forces, eh? What else did you learn from this guy?_

There was a short section on Master Sergeant Matthew Woodham in the file. A special forces weapons sergeant with cross training in communications, intelligence, and field medicine, Woodham had spent eighteen of his twenty-two year Army career in Special Forces, known colloquially to civilians as the Green Berets. He had deployed to Vietnam three times and had seen combat on numerous occasions. His other assignments including training with the Norwegian, German, Columbian, British, and Filipino armies. He had paratrooper badges from not just the U.S. Army but also the German, British, Norwegian, and Columbian armies. He also had a natural skill for languages similar to Jack, speaking Vietnamese, German, Spanish, and Cantonese fluently.

 _Two Silver Stars, three Bronze Stars with V devices, two Purple Hearts. And he cross-country skis. Damn, I don't want to mess with this guy and he's in his sixties. And that's just what is in the file. Who knows what isn't? Yeah, definitely, what else did you teach our little Tristan, Master Sergeant Woodham? There is more to you than what I see here._

Tristan had changed his choice of weapon - albeit only slightly - during his time with Woodham. All Immortals were known to favor some sort of bladed weapon for their gruesome method of killing, but while most preferred swords Tristan had originally chosen an M7 bayonet, the same kind used on the M16 rifle during the Vietnam era. While he was living with Master Sergeant Woodham, something made him decide to upgrade to the M9 bayonet, a slightly longer version with a thicker, heavier blade and a serrated back. It also has a multitude of other functions which he possibly found useful living off the land in the future.

Four years after coming to live with the Woodham family, Tristan finally decided to leave and move southward. A few months later, he found himself in Marietta, Georgia. It was at this time, in the spring of 1997, that he an Immortal he could not evade and resulted in his first and to date only deadly engagement. Jack let out a pent-up breath as he finished the final sentence of the tense narrative. He shook his head. Once again, he found himself impressed by his pint-sized Immortal. _You might be quite the intriguing assignment after all, Tristan._

Another five years of drifting and mostly living either in the woods or on the streets finally brought an emaciated Immortal boy to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. His nomadic life, upon closer inspection, was not so random, though. The chronicle summarized accounts of Tristan spending hours per day in the libraries of countless cities across Georgia and Alabama reading books and tapping away at computers trying to learn a new skill. Tristant was trying to bring himself into the approaching twenty-first century. Eventually, he must have decided he needed a flesh-and-blood teacher and located one in Tuscaloosa. Part of Mike's spying recounted email communications with a hacker known as R1ghte0us and an unknown boy named simply Terran. This back and forth chit-chat continued for months before R1ghte0us agreed to meet Terran at a local bookstore in town. From that point on, Tristan Dahl had a new home. Jack knew the rest from there.

Jack read through the file once more before closing the folder and staring at the seat back in front of him, contemplating the information he had just received. Throughout his life, it seemed Tristan had never actually learned any true martial skills which would enhance his survivability against adult Immortals. True, he had emerged victorious in his first encounter seven years ago due to some ingenuity on his part, but was that skill or luck? He had interpersonal skill obviously, but how long would that continue to serve him? And why this sudden trip south? _And why Florida, Tristan? You haven't been back there since you became Immortal. Are you going back home? If so, why? What are you planning?_

Jack put the thoughts out of his mind for now. He would have plenty of time to think about such things. For now, he resorting back to the old infantry maxim. He tucked the folder under his leg, put his soda bottle by his hip, leaned back as far as his seat would allow him, and closed his eyes. Best to rest for now. Who knew what the end of this trip would entail.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack awoke an hour later. Most of the bus had dozed off by now. It looked like even Tristan had succumbed to the vibrations of the bus. From Jack's perspective, it appeared his head was leaning against Sam's shoulder as he snoozed. Jack imagined she had a contented smile on her face. He closed his eyes again.

It was much later when he awoke this time. It was sunset. Jack checked his watch. 1858. Counting the time zone change - he had already adjusted his watch - they would be arriving in just under an hour. He glanced up the aisle toward Tristan. He could hear their whispered conversation from where he sat. The boy had either finished his novel or decided to distract himself with another activity as he and Sam were now engaged fully with a book of crossword puzzles. She was doing well since many of the clues were pop culture references with with Tristan obviously had no experience. Tristan took satisfaction in the historical and literary questions the puzzle asked, though, and they both seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Jack shifted in his seat and extracted the file from beneath his leg. He flipped it open again, took another long pull from his soda, and gave the file another quick reading. He caught a few details he had missed the first two times, his eyes widening as he took them in, some of the facts simply interesting, some verging on, dare he say it, nauseating. _You've had quite the life, Tristan._

xxxxxxxxxx

They pulled into the Tallahassee Greyhound station at 2057 local time, exactly as scheduled. As soon as the bus came to a halt, the weary passengers began pulling themselves to their feet. There was an audible cracking of knees and spines from some of them. Bags were pulled from overhead bins as everyone prepared to deboard. The slow shuffle toward the front of the bus began. Some passengers thanked their driver as they passed. He grinned and tipped his cap, wishing them a pleasant night.

The passengers scattered in their respective directions as they left the bus. The college girls and Tristan gathered in a small cluster off to one side and chattered with each other, all evidence of their fatigue on the bus now vanished. Jack hung off to one side, checking his watch repeatedly as if impatiently awaiting another ride. Tristan was rattling off a rapidfire joke for the benefit of the group. Jack wasn't sure if it was the joke itself, the boy's contagiously energetic voice, or just the the willingness of the girls to accept his humor that led to their ultimate peals of laughter, but the boy got his intended result, must to his delight. After the laughter quieted, Tristan worked his way through the group, delivering one last hug to each of them.

"Thank you for helping me," he said to them all, "and for being such good friends during the trip. I'm going to miss you." His voice was wavering again. Jack wondered if this part was an act or not.

"We're going to miss you, too, dear," replied Mandy, the third girl in the line, as she planted a light kiss on his forehead. She got a bright smile and a crushing hug in response. "Oh," she said in surprise and squeezed him back.

Each of the girls had their own parting words for the boys along with their own little displays of affection, as well. He noticeably bloomed through all of this. When Tristan got to Sam at the end of the line, he swung his pack off his shoulder and reached into it. "Sam, you bought my ticket. I have something for you."

"Honey, you don't have to give me anything," cracked Sam, her voice sounding as if she were on the verge of tears herself.

"That's why I want to do it, Sam. I was always told the best time to give a gift is when you don't have to." He pulled his Stephen King novel from the pack, extracted a pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap with his teeth, flipped open the front cover, and began to write. A few seconds later, he replaced the cap, put the pen back in his pocket, and presented the book to Sam. "This is for you, Sam," he said, proffering it with both hands.

Sam gasped audibly and reached out, also with both hands, and took the book. Once the had a grasp on it, she held onto it with one hand and reached out to him with the other. He stepped into her embrace willingly. She nuzzled her face into his hair and whispered, "I'm going to miss you, little one." She was definitely crying now.

"I'm going to miss you, too."

They separated and Tristan picked up his maroon backpack. He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his jacket sleeve. He looked at all of the girls.

"Thanks again. You all have been wonderful. Bye bye." He waved. They returned the wave, several of them misty-eyed now.

With that, Tristan turned to the right and slowly walked away from the coeds. After a few moments, he looked up and scanned the crowd. His eyes focused on one man in the distance and he froze. With renewed energy, he began to hop up and down, waving, and then began to jog in the man's direction. Seeing this, the girls released their pent up breaths and gathered around Sam.

"What did he write in the book, Sam?" asked Mandy.

Sam opened the front cover and looked inside. She gasped again, her hand covering her mouth. "Oh, that sweet boy." She read aloud. "It says, 'To Sam, A great friend who helped a boy in need. With all my heart. I'll miss you. Tristan.'"

"Oh, what a doll," responded another member of the group amid a cacophony of "Awwws" and gasps.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack followed Tristan as imperceptibly as he could. The crowds helped. The man to which the boy had waved had not noticed the action, of course, since he had not even been looking Tristan's way. It had all been a ruse for the sake of the girls. Jack checked his watch again. 2122.

 _What's your next move, Tristan? Another bus? A cab? A contact locally? What's your plan?_

Still inside the bus station, Jack did not expect what was actually happening, though. Tristan had donned his ball cap, put his pack over both shoulders, and was exiting the station.

 _He looks determined now._

Stepping outside, Tristan stood under a street light and scanned the crowds and the traffic. His eyes then moved to the street signs. Observing him, only now did Jack notice the other items in Tristan's hands.

 _Is that a military map case in his left hand? And a lensatic compass in his right?_

Tristan only consulted the compass briefly before tucking it into his pocket. A pen light replaced it. Tristan flipped a selector on the light and clicked it on; a tiny red light could be seen. He quickly turned it off and clipped the light inside his t-shirt collar. He studied the map more intently, looking up at the signs and even some of the surrounding buildings. He then turned south, facing down the street, and rotated the case in his hand.

Jack grinned to himself. He had done enough land navigation himself to know exactly what what happening here. Tristan was performing a basic land navigation task called determining a location on the ground by terrain association. He already knew his location on the ground. He just had to find himself on the map. Next, he had performed another basic task known as orienting a map to the ground by map-terrain association. This meant simply that he turned the map so that it was pointed in the same direction he was looking and all buildings and roads were in the same place on the map as they were on the ground.

 _Master Sergeant Woodham, I'm impressed. Your training is showing tonight. You've taught this boy well. He has prepared himself for this. Hell, he practically did a facing move at that street light and I'm ashamed of myself for only now really noticing that he's wearing hiking boots and how densely packed his backpack is. He's planning on hoofing it for a long way and being outdoors for a while, isn't he? There'll be no more riding tonight. To think I had so many people in the Army who couldn't read a map. It's so easy a child could do it...or a child Immortal._

Tristan held the map case under his chin and reached underneath the backpack with both hands. They returned to the front each holding a small strap, something most people ignored on their packs. He snapped these together under his ribs by their plastic connectors. He took the map case from under his chin. Shrugging his shoulders and taking a double bunny hop, he seemed satisfied with his preparations.

 _I swear he looks like a small infantryman getting ready for a road march. Well, in a way, he is._

With a final check of his map and a twisting of his neck from side to side, Tristan stepped out from beneath the street light and began walking south down Duval Street. Jack exited the bus station and crossed the street. He let his charge gain a short distance before following discreetly. This was going to be a challenge. As the night progressed, the crowds would thin down to nothing and he would have to increase the distance in order to avoid being spotted. Even worse, he didn't know the boy's destination so he couldn't even try to take any sort of shortcuts. He would just have to walk behind him and hope he didn't lose him. With a short sigh, Jack began to walk himself.

As he expected, Jack had to slow his pace in order to keep from overtaking the boy. He did, however, have to keep an eye on his target, the people around him, and any loose items on the ground to avoid accidentally kicking them and giving himself away. This naturally slowed him slightly.

About sixteen hundred meters (a mile) into the walk, they continued onto South Bronough Street but only kept on it for s short distance before taking South Adams Street. By now, Jack had changed to the same side of the street and had to maintain about one hundred meters distance to feel safe and still be able to barely see Tristan in the dim light. The moon and street lights helped him intermittently. They continued on the sidewalk of this road for nearly forty minutes before taking a slight curve onto Crawfordville Road.

Jack thought about the wine and spirits shop they had passed a mile back and how he would have loved to have stopped to purchase a small bottle of something real quick. A nice stiff drink would be refreshing. There was the Camelbak attached to his pack, too, but he did not have the drinking tube wrapped around to the front for easy access. He would have to fix that next time. Of course, he was still carrying the dregs of his soda bottle. He had forgotten about that. He took a mouthful of the warm liquid and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing.

The drink actually cleared Jack's mind somewhat. He had noticed something earlier and it had not registered fully with him.

 _Tristan had stopped walking for about two seconds when we took that curve onto this road. Now his gait has changed. He's not walking as casually as he did before. It's not just a kid out for a stroll. He's paying attention to every step he takes. By God, he's pace counting. He's keeping track of how far he's going now._

A pace count was a method soldiers used to measure the distance they traveled when walking. By counting every alternate step over a known distance, usually several times across varied types of terrain, they could determine how many steps it took for them to travel one hundred meters and thus be able to gauge how far they were traveling from any given point. Tristan was doing that now.

 _He has a destination in mind now and it's a certain distance from the curve of that road. He wants to know when he gets there. Of course, how is your pace count affected by your fatigue and the weight of your pack, Tristan. That's not really a concern, though, is it? The master sergeant would have trained you for such minor things. I'm more impressed by the moment. Of course, you did rest on the bus and eat a good meal before left. That would have helped prepare you for this. Now, if I only knew how far we had to go myself it would be nice._

Thirty minutes after the curve, which Jack judged to be about twenty-four hundred meters (a mile and a half), they passed a Dollar General store and Jack decided it was as good a landmark as any for him to start his own pace count. He paused for two minutes since he was sure his natural pace would make up for some of the lead Tristan had on him. Hopefully, he would not catch the boy, though. Such a meeting at this time of night would be awkward.

Jack set out again, the additional distraction of the count actually helping him clear the cobwebs of weariness that had been beginning to cloud his brain. The other effort he had to make was in the weight of his footfalls. He couldn't make them too heavy or the boy might hear him even from this distance. Jack was still in excellent physical condition yet he still found himself worrying about his own breathing, as well.

 _It's strange what little things go through your mind when you have so much time to think._

Jack had counted twenty-four hundred meters (one and a half miles) before he noticed Tristan come to a full stop and turn to the right. Jack paused himself and stepped into some darker shadows to watch. Checking both directions of the deserted street, the boy jogged across and stood at the edge of a woodline.

A plane flew overhead as he studied the trees and he looked up at it. Jack took the opportunity to dash across the street himself. He ducked just inside the treeline and looked back at the boy. After watching the plane disappear, the small Immortal walked calmly into the trees, loose twigs crackling under his feet. Jack followed slowly, hoping the sounds of his own movements were masked by the boy's.

They moved about one hundred meters into the trees before the boy halted. From his vantage point, Jack could vaguely make out the shadowy outline of the boy in the moonlight. Tristan was standing still, listening and looking around. Apparently satisfied with his position, he shucked his backpack and placed it on the ground.

Jack continued to watch, his night vision improving by the second in the dim light. Tristan unclipped the pen light from his collar and began digging around in his pack. He pulled a two small objects from within and set them aside. He reached inside again. His hand appeared again with a larger item. Jack could tell by its shape it was a military water canteen. The boy unscrewed the top and drank deeply in huge gulps, not stopping until he had drained the canteen. He withdraw the bottle from his lips with a satisfied sigh, replaced the cap, and placed the canteen by the other items. He then closed his pack. He clicked off his light and put it back on his collar.

Tristan took off his ball cap and ran his fingers through his long hair several times, sighing again with relief. He leaned back on his pack, looking up at the stars, and let out a long breath. Jack could sense the exhaustion catching up with the boy. It had been a long day, after all.

 _And, now that I think of it, even with that last meal you had, it was twelve hours ago and with Immortal metabolism you've already burned through all of that and more. What was it the instructors had theorized? An adult Immortal would need about five thousand calories per day? So even a boy would need about three thousand, right? You've got to be not only wiped out from the march but starving, as well._

Tristan's left arm moved up to eye level and a small light came on. He was checking his watch. A series of tiny beeps told Jack he was setting an alarm.

 _Well, if I rack out right here, maybe I can hear it when it goes off. Hopefully, there's enough concealment from these bushes and trees to keep him from seeing me once it's daylight._

Tristan sat up and reached for the items by his pack. He rolled to the side and unfurled one of them. Jack could now see they were lightweight emergency blankets. The boy laid one of them on the ground, crawled on top of it lying on his side, and took off his boots, placing them next to the pack. He placed his head on the pack like a pillow and wrapped himself in the other blanket. After a few wiggles to find a comfortable position, he went still. In another minute, his breathing became regular.

 _Sleep well, kid._

Jack sat on the ground behind the bushes and slowly removed his own pack. He would not have the luxury of extracting anything from it. There was too much of a risk of making noise and waking the boy only twenty meters (sixty-five feet) away from him. Jack slowly scooted down until the pack became his own pillow and looked briefly up at the stars himself.

 _Well, Jack, old boy, a year ago you were sleeping under the stars. Now here you are under them again._

With that thought, Jack also slept. His first official day as a Watcher had ended.


	6. When Logic and Proportion Have Fallen

And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall  
Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar has given you the call

"White Rabbit" – Jefferson Airplane

28 March 2004

Tallahassee, Florida

The sun was just rising in the east when the tweeting of birds awoke Jack early the next morning. He opened his eyes and slowly sat up. He looked left, checking his concealment. He nodded. It was sufficient. He could not see the boy through bushes which meant conversely the boy could not see him. Rubbing his arms to knock off some of the slight morning chill, Jack carefully went to his hands and knees and crawled to the bushes. Slowly rising, he looked over the top.

Tristan was still sleeping. His back was to the Watcher, his head still on his backpack, his brown hair contrasting with its maroon in the brightening light of dawn. His small body was still wrapped in the emergency blanket which gave Jack the impression of a tiny silver burrito. Jack checked his watch. 0644. A moment later, he heard rapid beeping from the small clearing where Tristan lay. His alarm was going off.

Jack dropped down slightly and used his fingers to make a peephole through the bush. Tristan sat up and tapped a button on his watch to silence the alarm. He shook his head and yawned twice. His expression said he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. Rather then that, he tossed aside his top blanket and reached for one of his boots. He turned the first one upside down and slapped the sole forcefully several times before looking inside and then checking with his fingers. Satisfied nothing had crawled into the first one, he put it on his foot and laced it up. He then repeated this with the second boot. Next, he stood and folded his blankets into the smalls squares they had been the night before.

Tristan knelt by his pack and opened it. He returned the blankets and removed some other items. Jack saw with a smirk they were the typical things an infantryman in the field might want in the morning; an entrenching tool, toilet paper, and hand sanitizer as well as some prepackaged food. Tristan picked up the first three items along with the canteen and began to walk west. Jack took this to mean there was a water source nearby. It also meant he would have some time to himself to perform some of the same morning ablutions himself. He was grateful for these few moments and crawled back to his own back as the boy disappeared into the trees.

 _Let him have a little privacy for a few minutes. I'd like a few to myself for the same thing._

Finished with his own morning needs, Jack returned to his pack. Picking up his much travelled soda bottle, he was pleased to see no evidence of ants having searched around its cap during the night and drained it of its contents. He stowed the empty bottle in the pack, withdrew two granola bars from a side pocket, put a third in his jacket for later, and closed the pack. Having learned his lesson from the night before, he rearranged his Camelbak's drinking tube so it hung over his pack's right shoulder strap. He then donned the pack and sat down to await Tristan's return.

Jack was halfway through his first granola bar and taking a sip from his Camelbak when the boy reappeared, shaking his canteen from side to side. _He must have water purification tablets, as well,_ Jack thought. Tristan returned to his pack, sat, and picked up his map case. He studied it as he tore open his camp food and began to eat it with a plastic spoon. Jack nibbled on his bar as he watched. _And where will we be going today, little guy?_

Tristan must have made up his mind. He set the case aside. His eyes casually surveyed his surroundings as he ate, reclining easily on his pack. _He could almost be any boy on a camping trip under other circumstances,_ pondered Jack.

His meal finished, Tristan folded the plastic bag and placed it in a side pocket of his pack before returning the other sundry items to the main pocket. Jack's eyes widened slightly as he withdrew something else before closing the pack. The boy was getting more serious now. He held in his hands an M9 bayonet in its scabbard as well as what looked like some sort of customized padded sleeve. The boy pulled a few pre-cut lengths of parachute cord from a smaller pocket, inserted the bayonet into the sleeve, tied the scabbard to the sleeve through two holes, and then tied the sleeve to the back of his backpack. He slung the pack over one shoulder and stood, sliding his other arm through the second strap and cinching them both tight.

Jack nodded in understanding. Now the boy would be able to access his weapon if needed simply by reaching behind his back. The padded sleeve, which extended the length of the handle, would mask the fact a child was carrying a massive knife as well a reduce the friction against his back as he walked. The pressure created against his back by the pack would ease the withdrawal of the blade. Tristan practiced drawing and returning the knife a few times. His moves were flawless. He had clearly done this many times in the past.

Picking up his ball cap by its brim, Tristan slapped it lightly against his palm a few times and placed it on his head. He cinched down the shoulder straps and reattached the lower waist strap. He then repeated his little ritual of flexing his shoulders, bunny hop, and twisting his neck. He was ready to move again. He began to walk.

Behind his bush, Jack waited. He would give the boy a little time before making his own move. He had to be sure he made it out of the woods without making any sound. He also had to consider the additional challenge of following his charge in daylight. Regardless of the path the Immortal took, this was going to be much more difficult than last night. He counted down two minutes and then slowly rose to his feet. It was time for him to continue his mission.

xxxxxxxxxx

15 April 2004

Crystal River, Florida

The cat-and-mouse chase had continued for almost three weeks, through blazing sun and surprisingly chilly mornings for the Sunshine State, but no rain yet, thank goodness. Jack was continuously amazed at the boy's stamina and abilities throughout the journey. They would walk for six to seven hours per day, sometimes in urban areas, sometimes in forests or swamps, and then Tristan would set up a rudimentary camp for the night. At that point, while there was still plenty of daylight, he would construct three or four traps which he would set up nearby before setting off to gather whatever edible plants he could find in an area to supplement his prepackaged foods. Sometimes, when he returned, he would find one of his traps had yielded fruit and he would have a rabbit or some other small creature which he would then slaughter and prepare over a campfire. The smell of the cooking meat usually left Jack ravenous as he subsisted on cold - and quickly dwindling - MRE rations.

Tristan was also quite responsible each morning. If his remaining traps had not produced anything by dawn, he would destroy them before continuing his trip. If they had caught something, the sound of the distressed animal usually awoke him during the night and he would put it out of its misery immediately. He would then prepare it that morning, carefully wrap it in a cloth, and have it for lunch. Except for some freshly dug earth where he had covered his fires, there was practically no evidence of his campsites when he left them each morning.

Jack was thankful for the diversions into urban areas because he had learned it usually meant the boy would make a quick stop at a store for some item or another. The last time, he had walked out of a sporting goods store with a Camelbak hydration system. Jack had wondered what had given him that idea. Regardless, those brief visits to civilization gave Jack the opportunity to sneak off to the other side of the same store and purchase some sundry item or another, such as more trail mix or toilet paper, to keep himself supplied, as well. He always had to move quickly since he never quite knew how much time Tristan would spend in the store and wanted to be outside and out of sight before the boy emerged and continued walking.

They were now on open roads again and Jack was thankful. Even though it meant he had to drop back a considerable distance, almost to the point he could not see Tristan at all, to hopefully keep the boy from getting suspicious, the paved roads were easier to navigate than the constantly changing terrain of the swamps and forests. Jack swayed in the sunlight. He checked his watch. 1207. They had been walking since 0719. Half an hour ago, he recalled seeing a sign for Crystal River. His knowledge of Florida geography was a bit vague, but he was pretty sure it was somewhere on the central western coast of the state. _Have we really walked that far? Wow, what a trip._

Jack froze. Up ahead of him, he saw that Tristan was no longer walking. The boy was looking down at his map case or a notebook or something of the sort. He was looking from the object in his hand - Jack decided to call it a notebook - up to a house, and back. Seeming satisfied, he tucked the notebook in his back pocket and trotted casually up the long driveway.

With a burst of renewed energy, Jack leapt across a ditch on the far side of the road on which he had been walking and climbed the barbed wire fence bordering it. There was a line of trees on the other side of the fence and he weaved between them before dashing in the direction of the house. Cognizant of the sound of his footfalls, he slowed himself fifty meters before he reached the front of the house and walked quickly until he was directly across from it. He went to the prone position behind some trees and scrub brush. Wiggling out of his pack, he removed his binoculars and brought them to his eyes.

The front of the house was almost two hundred meters from the road. There was a car parked out front. Tristan was almost to the door now, his jog still more of a lazy trot. Yeah, the boy was clearly tired.

 _What is driving you, Tristan?_

xxxxxxxxxx

The Immortal boy hesitated at the front porch of the house. Despite the light exercise, his heart was pounding intently. He was nervous beyond belief.

 _I hate new introductions. I always wonder how the person will receive me. What if I'm rejected? What if I came all this way for nothing? What will I do then?_

Tristan took a deep breath, held it, and finally let it out. He wasn't going to get anywhere by just standing here. He reached for the doorbell, his finger extended, paused, made a fist, sighed again, extended his finger, and pushed the button. The sound of the bell reverberated throughout the house. Tristan stood, his own body shaking inwardly with each vibration of the doorbell.

He did not have to wait long for a response, thankfully. The door opened on well oiled hinges to reveal a fit man of about one hundred seventy-eight centimeters (five feet, ten inches) in his mid-sixties. His brown hair showed only traces of grey. His eyes, a dark green, were striking. His expression was neutral as he looked down at his diminutive visitor.

"Yes?" he inquired. "May I help you, young man?"

Tristan gulped, his nervousness made worse by the smell of freshly-cooked food wafting through open doorway. His mouth watered at the fragrance.

"Yes, sir," he responded. "Are you Master Sergeant John Boatwright out of the 1st Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group?"

The man grinned. "My boy, I've been retired from the military for almost fifteen years. How the blue hell did you learn what my last assignment was? Pardon my language."

Tristan added a grin of his own. "From Master Sergeant Matthew Woodham in Georgia. He said if I ever needed help from the best medic in the world, I should look you up."

Boatwright chuckled and slapped his leg with his hand. "Good old Woody. That means you must be Tristan." The boy nodded. "He's told me stories about you, always in confidence, of course. Come in, come in."

Boatwright stepped aside and invited the boy in with a gesture. "I was just preparing lunch. You're welcome to join me. It's simple. Just tomato soup, bananas, and grilled cheese sandwiches. My doctor wouldn't be happy about that last part, but fuck him."

Tristan's smiled broadened. He had learned the subtle differences in the ways soldiers talk to civilians and to each others, primarily the coarseness of their language and the stories they tell. To be treated as "part of the club" among a group of soldiers was an honor indeed. Woodham had begun to treat him as such over time. He wondered what he had told Boatwright to make him so inviting. Clearly enough.

He stepped into the air conditioned house and sighed with relief. It felt wonderful. He removed his ball cap. Boatwright smiled again.

"Not many kids do that nowadays. Did you learn that from Woody?"

Tristan looked down at the cap for a moment and then back up at his host. "No, from my parents. They taught me it was just basic courtesy to take off your hat when you entered a house. It's been a habit of mine ever since."

"Well," Boatwright added with a wave, walking toward the kitchen. "Follow me. I had just finished preparing enough for one. Naturally, as host, that means you get the first serving. I'll fix some more. Drop your backpack over there along with your shoes. They're a bit messy."

Tristan looked down at his boots. They were indeed covered in the various detritus of Florida's soils and flora. "Oops! Sorry." He dropped to the floor and began unlacing them.

"No issue. Looks like you could use a shower, too. My grandson is about your size. He has some clothes up in my guest room. I'll get some after I've set a place for you at the table. Do you need to do laundry, too?"

Tristan laughed. "Wow! You think of everything. I have some changes of clothes in my pack but I've gone through them all during my trip. They probably smell awful."

"Hah!" guffawed Boatwright. "Not to be rude, my lad, but so do you. It was the first thing I noticed when I opened the door. Go on into the bathroom after you've removed those boots and grab a towel for yourself. You can eat in that for now. I'm sure you've dressed - and eaten - in worse before. Bring me the clothes and I'll put them in the wash."

"Oh, man, Sergeant Boatwright, I didn't mean to impose this much so soon. I'm not even out of your foyer yet, for goodness sake."

Boatwright turned to face the boy. "Woody would do it for you, Tristan, and any of us would do this for any of our brothers, if you know what I mean."

Tristan nodded his understanding.

"Good. And call me John. Now let's eat."

xxxxxxxxxx

"My God!" exclaimed Boatwright, Tristan sopped up a bit of spilled soup off his bare chest with a napkin. "I have never seen a boy your size put away that much food in my life."

It had been quite a meal. Five bowls of soup, four grilled cheese sandwiches which were often dipped in the soup for additional flavor, and four large bananas. Three large glasses of ice water and even a chilled Heineken had washed it all down. Tristan could not suppress a small contented belch as he leaned back in contentment, a dreamy grin on his face.

"That was incredible, John. Thank you so much."

"I will say it is not often that I serve a glass of beer to a 'twelve-year-old' but, as I said, Matt told me some things about you."

Tristan leaned forward again with interest, his forearms resting on the table. "Just what did he tell you?"

Boatwright pushed his empty soup bowl and the remaining third of his sandwich away. "He came down here a few years ago to visit. My wife was away visiting family just like she is this week. We had a few beers and he started to tell me about this boy he had met, this boy who never aged, a boy who could not die."

"Well, almost," added Tristan.

"Right, almost," corrected Boatwright. He mentioned that, too. He said you had lived with him for four years and how close you two had become, how he had taught you many of the things he knew in order to help you stay alive. He said he wished he could have taught you more, but there were some skills he had back in the day that had simply atrophied from lack of use since he had retired and he didn't think he'd be the right teacher for you. Instead, he focused on the things he knew well and that would definitely benefit you."

"He did a great job. A lot of it is how I got here in the first place. In fact, it's his training that is the reason I'm still alive today."

"He'd be very pleased to hear that. He has always been a superb teacher. It's part of what made him such a great part of Special Forces. We are all trainers, but he was one of the best I ever saw. One time, in only eight weeks, he took forty Degar - you might know them better as Montagnard - natives and transformed them from a bunch of untrained rabble into a crack infantry platoon. He had them running a guerrilla campaign which plagued the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Regulars for months after that. It was incredible."

Tristan smiled. "He joked that he was just a shadow of his former self now and that he was only teaching me 'bits and pieces,' as he called it. It certainly didn't seem like little bits to me at the time. I thought my head was going to explode. Maps, land navigation, herbology, fieldcraft, traps, survival, surveillance, countersurveillance, first aid, improvised tools. Oh, man, it was so much. And that was just the first two years. He kept adding more and more." Tristan shook his head and grinned again. "It's amazing to think what else is still in his head that he never got around to teaching me or that he didn't think he was fit to teach me."

Boatwright nodded his agreement and added his own toothy smile. "Like I said, the best trainer I ever saw. Anyway, he told me about you and I swore my silence on the issue. He also told me that he had instructed you to seek me out if you ever needed help. I told him I'd treat you like a brother-in-arms and I meant it."

Boatwright extended his hand across the table. "Welcome, little brother."

Tristan blushed and took the man's hand. "Thank you, John. It's an honor."

"The honor is mine."

"Matt told me once there was a man who knew even more than he did. I thought that was impossible, but he swore by it. He said his name was Asher or something like that."

Boatwright's face split into a massive grin. "Captain Asher, our detachment commander." He slapped the table with his palm. "I haven't thought of him in years. Yes, he was indeed brilliant, a magnificent officer. I heard he retired as a colonel. Whenever we were training, he would always say, "Sweat now or bleed later, gentlemen," and he would work harder than any of us. I could tell you some stories about him that would chill your blood." The old soldier ran his fingers through his hair. "God, I don't think I've seen Asher in thirty-five years."

"That's what Matt said, too."

Boatwright shrugged. "He might not even be alive today, for all I know."

The man stood. "Now, little brother, let's get you upstairs so you can wash that crust off yourself. You also look like you could use some rest. You can use my grandson's room. Sleep as long as you like. I'll take care of the washing while you nap. I'll get some clothes for you while you're in the shower."

Tristan stood and, suddenly realizing the extent of his fatigue, yawned. "Thank you."

They walked side by side up the stairs. Boatwright's hand naturally came to rest on the boy's shoulder. Tristan lips slowly spread into a contented grin. The grandfatherly warmth of the physical contact was remarkably comforting. Somehow, he felt the tension in his muscles ebbing away through the man's fingertips.

 _God, I miss having a family, someone who loves me. I can enjoy this while it lasts, though._

All too soon, they reached the top of the stairs. Boatwright's hand fell away and he gestured toward the open bathroom doorway. Tristan could feel the chill where the man's fingers had been and missed them already.

"There you go," indicated Boatwright. "I'll be downstairs when you wake up. We can talk more then. Rest well."

"Thanks again. I do appreciate all of this."

Boatwright smiled silently and nodded before walking down the stairs, leaving the boy to his task. Tristan looked into the bathroom. A hot shower did seem very appealing at the moment; so did the prospect of that nap.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was nearly 1700 when Tristan slowly descended the staircase. He stretched and twisted his body as he walked. Almost four hours of sleep had done him well. He felt completely recharged. He was barefoot. The Florida Gators t-shirt he wore was just the slightest bit too short, exposing his midriff somewhat, and the jeans were loose due to his recent weight loss, but it still felt heavenly to be dressed in clean clothes. _It's a little weird to be wearing another kid's tighty whities, though._

He found Master Sergeant Boatwright in his living room in a recliner reading a western novel. The retired soldier looked up as the boy entered and grinned. He put a bookmark in his novel and set it aside.

"Well, my lad," he said, as he stood, "you look well rested."

"I feel incredible. Thank you."

"Well, if what Matt told me about how much you eat holds true, you're bound to be hungry again. How about we go out on the back deck, I throw some steaks on the grill, and we talk about why you're really here?"

As if on cue, Tristan's stomach growled. They both chuckled at the sound. "I think that's a great idea," said Tristan.

"By the way, your clothes are clean and back in your pack along with some more food. You were pretty much out of everything so you're restocked now. How much farther do you have to go?"

"Gee, thanks. About a week or so on foot. I've also been gathering food as I'm traveling to extend the life of what's in the pack. This will help a lot. There's another thing on my mind, though."

"What's that?" asked Boatwright as he closed the glass door on the deck and set the steak and vegetables next to the grill.

"I'm being followed."

Boatwright looked up. "You're sure?"

Tristan nodded. "Since Tallahassee, at least. I saw him in Birmingham but I wasn't sure until Tallahassee. He's been with me for almost three weeks."

"Why haven't you done anything until now?"

"He's always kept his distance. He just follows at a discreet distance and watches. He's like a shadow. He doesn't bother me. He's just there. He's very good at concealing himself. If not for what Matt had taught me about countersurveillance, I never would have noticed him at all. This guy has had some training of his own, I think. I want to know why he's following me and why he's watching me. He even takes notes sometimes, like a journal. Why would anyone keep a journal about me? I'm just a kid on a long walk, right? I have a thought about why but I want to verify it."

"Why don't you confront him"

"Look at me," said Tristan, running his hands down his body. "He's a full-grown man and I'm a little boy. He could overpower me easily. I think he might even be armed. He looks like he might even be a soldier...or he used to be."

"So what's your plan?"

Tristan told him.

Boatwright pondered it for a moment as he turned the steaks. "Ballsy. It could work though. What about overdose?"

"That's why I'm here."

Boatwright grinned. "Now I see."

"Yep," Tristan responded, smiling. "I don't have that one thing that might be needed. I was hoping you had it or could get it."

"As a matter of fact, I had to help a buddy with just that sort of countermeasure recently and "accidentally" kept a few bags of that particular stuff for myself as compensation. They're yours." Tristan grinned again. "Now go into the kitchen and grab some plates and beers."

Boatwright had just finished shutting down the grill when Tristan returned with plates, napkins, silverware, and two bottles of Guinness. The boy set the deck table as the master sergeant transferred steaks, roasted carrots, and steaming bell peppers to plates. Tristan handed him a bottle opener and the beers were uncapped.

"Bon appetit, mon frère," said Boatwright.

"Merci," replied Tristan, eyeing the food with great relish.

After the meal, Boatwright set his knife and fork down and looked over at his guest. He switched the conversation back to business. "Where will you do it."

"I have a spot in mind." Tristan told him where. "It's not too far from here. A few days. Far enough that he shouldn't be expecting anything by the time it happens, shouldn't connect it to my stopping here, hopefully, at least."

"I'm sure he's suspecting something anyhow since all you've done is walk for the last three weeks. Chances are, though, he thinks you just wanted a break. I certainly would. In fact, I'm going to give you a few other things before you go. They might be useful. There's still a little bit of room in that pack even after I give you the other stuff."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack had been lying on his stomach for nearly eight hours, except for one time when he had crawled away to answer the call of nature, when the front door finally opened. In the illumination of the porch light, he saw Tristan emerge from the house in what looked like freshly laundered clothes. He even appeared rested, washed, and fed. Jack mentally shook his head in amazement yet again. How often had he seen this boy make friends out of total strangers?

This one seemed different, however. Unlike the performances Jack had seen at the Birmingham and Tallahassee bus stations, there did not seem to be anything contrived here. Everything was genuine. The boy appeared to be thanking the older man and was now giving him a hug before shrugging into his seemingly refilled pack, donning his cap, waving with a smile, and turning to walk down the driveway. The man stood and watched as the boy sauntered toward the street. Did Jack perceive a grin on his face, as well?

Tristan had reached the street and was turning south now. As always, Jack waited for him to gain some distance before moving himself. The darkness gave him an extra shot of courage. He only waited one minute before packing his binoculars and moving out. His charge was obviously rejuvenated and in the mood to walk. Jack had to do so, as well, blistered feet or not.

xxxxxxxxxx

18 April 2004

Werner-Boyce Salt Springs State Park

Jack was confused. The visit to the man in Crystal River had obviously motivated Tristan to move with renewed energy. He had walked for three hours that night before settling down to sleep, a full eight hours the next day, and another eight hours the next. Jack was fairly certain his feet would break apart if they continued this pace much longer. He could feel blood beginning to pool in his boots. Each evening, when he checked his feet, they were were a worsening sight to behold.

They had crossed into the Werner-Boyce Salt Springs State Park yesterday and now Tristan seemed content to sit in one of the more isolated parts of the park and just rest. He had constructed a simple lean-to, gathered some mushrooms and berries to supplement his rations, and leaned against a tree contentedly chewing for half an hour. Afterward, he had apparently decided it was bathtime. At the sight of the boy disrobing, Jack crawled back to his back to allow the boy a little privacy. He would check back in a few minutes.

Jack took the welcome downtime to air out his feet and catch up on his notes on Tristan. He pulled his tupperware container from his pack. Nibbling on the trail mix as he wrote, he leaned against his own tree and let his thoughts flow onto the pages. He had learned a great deal about this Immortal in the last few weeks and he let it all inscribe itself on his pad. Forty minutes of furious writing later and he found himself with a full notebook and a sore hand. He had been taking notes throughout the journey but did not realize he had so much already. He had more notebooks in his pack, though.

Jack looked over at his pack. It was about three meters (ten feet) away and he did not relish the thought of crawling towards it with bare feet. Besides, this tree was rather comfortable, wasn't it? He checked his watch. 1147. He listened to the birds in the trees. They really did make such beautiful sounds, didn't they? Before he knew it, he had dozed off.

Thirty minutes passed lazily. The life of the forest continued to move about as Jack slept; flying, digging, climbing, but most interestingly, crawling. A large green and black inchworm - or that's what he might have called if he woke up just now and saw it - was creeping its way toward Jack from the rear. Large was the key word here. This inchworm was one hundred forty-seven centimeters (four feet, ten inches) long, had arms and legs, and was dressed in a child-sized version of a tiger-stripe camouflage uniform and Timberland boots. Its face was covered in green and black paint and its hands wore black gloves. With its current rate of movement and its use of the surrounding flora, it was practically invisible except for its eyes.

The inchworm watched its target. About twenty meters (sixty-six feet) separated them. The man seemed to be sleeping soundly. Could the worm go with its original plan or should it be more aggressive? It crawled closer, still cautious. A close observer could almost see the blade of an M9 bayonet tucked underneath its left arm, the handle extending forward in its hand.

The worm's eyes continued to scan the man's little camp as it crept forward. It was next to the tree where the man slept now. Pausing to listen, it gauged the rhythm of the man's breathing; nice and even. Glancing ahead, the worm saw the tupperware container at the man's left knee and grinned, white teeth contrasted sharply with the camouflage paint. A two meter (six foot) crawl would get it to the container. Could it do that without waking the man? Shifting the bayonet to its right hand, it rolled to its left side and began inching along on one knee and elbow as silently as possibly, eyes on the man the entire time. The man never moved.

The inchworm chanced a glance at the container. A solitary ant was inquisitively walking along its top, deciding whether to climb down into its depths and taste the goods within. The worm slowly reached out with a finger and lightly brushed the ant away. With another check on the man to verify he was still asleep, the worm carefully placed the bayonet on the ground and unbuttoned the cargo pocket at its thigh, reaching inside. It withdrew and handful of black seeds and sprinkled them silently into the container. It then added another handful. Reaching inside, it then ran its fingers through the contents to mix them somewhat, masking the addition of the new ingredient to a degree. The worm then picked up the container's lid and carefully placed it on top. Not taking a chance on pressing down on the lid due to the sound it would make, the worm picked up its bayonet and began the slow backtrack into the foliage. Just as cautiously, it started to work its way around to Jack's front for a better vantage point.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack awoke and, by force of habit, checked his watch. 1411. _Holy hell, I slept a long time. Well, that explains the crick in my neck._

He pulled his Camelbak to him and took a long pull from it. He leaned down on an elbow where, if he craned his head just right, he could see through a tiny break in the brush and see Tristan's lean-to, and checked on his little charge. _The kid's probably taking a nap of his own. What else is there to do during the heat of the day? Or eat sweets._

Jack glanced at his trail mix container. He didn't remember putting the lid on it before he fell asleep, but he was glad the had. _Ants would be having a field day in there by now, I bet._

He reached for the container and removed the top. He tilted his head back and dropped a small handful into his mouth, chewing slowly. He noticed an unfamiliar crunch but had swallowed before had really considered it. He looked at the trail mix. _Looks like some of the raisins have shriveled up and hardened in this heat._ He shrugged. He was hungry and he had a sweet tooth right now. _You've eaten worse, infantryman._

From twenty meters (sixty-six feet) away, concealed in the brush, a small form was eying him intently.

After consuming a third of the mix, Jack secured the lid to it and set it aside. He scooted over to his pack and pulled a pair of socks from inside. He had at least taken the time to do a little bit of field laundry at their campsite the night before so these were relatively clean, better than the blood-soaked pair he had peeled from his feet earlier anyway. He slowly pulled them over his feet, wincing the whole time. He then laced his boots tightly over them.

Taking a new notebook from his pack, Jack pushed himself back to his tree. The writing was a little slower this time as he pondered questions about Tristan's Crystal River visitation and its purpose, his decision to return to Florida, and even his choice of transportation.

 _Of all the things, that confuses me the most. You could have arranged for buses or planes to take you anywhere you wanted to go within the United States yet you chose to con your way onto a bus and then to walk over two hundred miles through various types of terrain. Why?_

 _What are you avoiding? Is is just other Immortals? Sure, they tend to congregate in urban areas and you'd be at a disadvantage against an adult, but isn't this an extreme amount of effort? But, thinking about your past, you have done this many times before, so it's not completely surprising._

 _What_ is _different this time is how often you're moving. When you've lived off the land in the past, you've chosen an area and stayed there for a few weeks or months, not a day or several hours. Why the constant need to go south? Toward Clearwater? Was I right in what I thought before, Tristan? Are you going home? If so, why?_

All of these thoughts filled the pages of Jack's book. He paused, squinted down at the lined pages for a moment. His handwriting was getting erratic. He brought his pen back to the page to underline the word "why?" The instrument slipped from his fingers.

 _What the hell?_

He looked up through the branches, noticing for the first time the silence around him.

 _Why are the birds not chirping?_

His mouth was dry. He reached for his Camelbak and sucked on its tube greedily. He found he could barely swallow the water. It was then that he noticed the tremor in his fingers.

 _What is happening to me?_

Dropping the Camelbak and shoving the notebook aside, he shakily stood. His legs felt like they were made of limp noodles. He brought his trembling hand to his eyes, trying to shade them from the brightening sun.

 _Shouldn't the shade of the branches be sufficient?_

His skin was unnaturally warm. He had to get out of his jacket even as light as it was. Even that effort was too much for him and he collapsed as he got it free, landing back against his tree. Heart pounding in his chest, he tried to control his breathing, to regain some degree of stasis. He wiped his brow. To his surprise, it came away dry. As hot as he felt, he should be sweating like crazy.

"Don't worry. It's not heat stroke."

Jack could barely comprehend the words through his delirium. He looked up through blurry eyes as he heard the sound of crackling limbs. A form was rising from the brush before him. Whatever it was, it had read his thoughts. A monster. He fumbled weakly for his pistol. His fingers felt five times too large and could not grasp the weapon properly. In a few rapid heartbeats, the hazy form was upon him and plucking the gun from its holster. Something cold was pressed to his neck. A knife?

"You won't be needing that," he heard, before he passed out.


	7. Going Slightly Mad

"I'm knitting with only one needle  
unraveling fast it's true  
I'm driving only three wheels these days  
But my dear, how about you?"

"I'm Going Slightly Mad" - Queen

19 April 2004  
Werner-Boyce Salt Springs State Park

"Wake up, Mister Watcher Man."

The child's voice rang in Jack's ears. He opened his eyes slowly, dimly aware of how much the sunlight had burned his retinas earlier. It wasn't as bad now. He look about his little camp uncomprehendingly.

He was immediately disturbed into full consciousness. Nothing was where he had left it. The contents of his backpack were everywhere; in some places like items were stacked in neat piles, in others there were haphazard scatterings. Most distressing to him were the locations of three items, all generally in the same place in front of him, his laptop, the file on Tristan, and his pistol.

All of these he could plainly see. The laptop was open, its screen facing away from him. The file, also open, was tucked carefully under the computer so a chance gust of wind would not blow its pages away. The pistol, however, complete with its silencer, was held nonchalantly in the small right hand of Tristan Dahl, his forearm draped over his right knee. The camouflage clothing and face paint were gone now, replaced by his usual jeans, t-shirt and ball cap. He sat lazily behind the laptop, his left foot tucked next to him and his right knee near his chin forming a triangle. All the boy would have to do would be to lift his wrist in order to aim the weapon at Jack.

"Sleep well?" asked Tristan innocently.

Jack didn't answer. He just studied his situation further. During the night, Tristan had clearly taken his time making sure of his own safety. Jack was shirtless and his boots and socks were gone. There was an IV drip in each arm. One looked like a normal lactated ringer for hydration and the other he didn't recognize. The bags were suspended above his head by parachute cord. Two pair of handcuffs were around Jack's ankles and connected to each other in the middle. He'd be able to do a sort of shuffling walk, if allowed, but he couldn't run. To Jack's surprise, his arms were free. Finally, he spoke.

"What did you do to me yesterday?"

The boy grinned. "A simple trick. I put Jimson Weed seeds in your trail mix. You ate enough of them to give yourself atropine poisoning. That's why you were in such a state before you passed out. It will probably take you a day or two to recover. That weird IV in your right arm is Physostigmine. It will counteract the atropine. I have to be careful how much I give you, though, or it could poison you, too. How much do you weigh?"

"Seventy-six kilograms (one hundred sixty-eight pounds)," replied Jack automatically.

Tristan nodded. "Okay, we're still good then."

Jack's eyes widened and he gasped. He sat forward. "So those black nuggets were not hardened raisins. They were…."

"Yep, those were the seeds. And you just kept popping them in your mouth by the handful. I was watching and I thought you were going to start having a reaction long before you did. You really surprised me."

"Well," sighed Jack, leaning slowly back onto his tree. "Don't I feel foolish?"

"Ah, don't be," consoled Tristan, waving with his left hand. "They were meant to look like raisins."

Jack wiggled his feet. "I get the part about hobbling my legs, but why take my boots?"

"Because someone had to treat your blisters, silly? Your feet looked like hamburger. I cut away the dead skin, coated the injuries with Neosporin cream, added some light bandages, and some mole skin. You just can't feel any of it 'cause you're still woozy from the atropine."

"Well, thanks, I guess."

The boy nodded.

"So, what now?" asked Jack.

"Now," responded Tristan, dragging out the word drastically, "we talk about this." He indicated the computer and the file before him. "As you can see, I searched through all of your stuff while you slept. I've also done a lot of reading. Poor security on your laptop, by the way. Just a fingerprint scanner? The password on the CD-ROM wasn't too bad once I realized what it was. I got it on the second guess."

Tristan thought silently for a moment. "The person who configured this laptop and the guy who set up the security on this CD are not the same person. One is much better than the other. What would have happened if I kept getting the password wrong?"

Jack smirked. "On the third error, a script on the CD would have caused the laser on the CD drive to fry the disc."

Tristan's jaw dropped. He shut it. Then it dropped again. Then he laughed. "That's awesome! It would probably ruin the disc drive, too, but I guess you wouldn't care, right, as long as someone couldn't read the disc?" He looked down at the laptop again. "I'd like to meet the guy that made this disc. Sounds like he's really good."

Tristan looked up, his eyes meeting Jack's, all humor now gone. "So, Mister Watcher Man, I want to know more about why you're following me. I can see from what you have here that you and others like you keep records on Immortals. That kind of makes it seem like you are all a bunch of Jane Goodall-types trailing us apes around and keeping records for posterity. But," he dragged the word out again, "if that were the case, then why this?" Tristan lifted his wrist, indicating the pistol in his hand. "Or this?" He reached behind his back and produced the lengthy Smith & Wesson knife.

Jack blanched. "There is an answer to that, but it's not a simple one. It's also not meant as a threat to you." Jack felt childish himself as he uttered the next statement. "It's a very long story."

Tristan held up his left wrist to indicate his watch. "We have time. Like I said, it's going to take you a while to recover and I can't just leave you here after what I've done to you."

This caught Jack off guard. "Some Immortals would...or worse."

Tristan's expression never changed. "I'm not most Immortals."

"Yes," said Jack. "I've definitely learned that over these last few weeks." He straightened and faced his captor. "Before I tell the long story, may I have some food and water, please?"

"Sure," responded Tristan immediately. "Your Camelbak is by your right side. It's full and has been purified. You shouldn't need much with that ringer in your arm, though. There's also an AlpineAire meal and a plastic spoon on top of it. You'll have to eat it cold, though."

"Are you going to read my horoscope next?" asked Jack, grinning.

Tristan replied with a smile of his own. "Let's just say I had plenty of time to think about this conversation before we had it, Mister Watcher Man."

"Jack, please."

"I know," said the boy with a tiny chuckle. "I looked in your wallet. I liked the credit card from Observant Technologies, Incorporated, by the way. Is that how you paid for your bus ticket?"

Jack nodded as he tore open his prepacked meal. "First time I've had an expense account even if it was just for a bus ticket. Add the gun, the knife, the computer, and other stuff, and it almost has a James Bond feel about it all."

"Except instead of chasing spies around the world you're chasing little boys in the woods in Florida."

"Yeah, sounds kind of creepy when you put it that way, doesn't it?"

"A bit. Consider this, too, before you start thinking about the usual name, rank, and serial number kind of BS you soldiers are taught to give. I'll know if you lie to me." There was no humor in the boy's face.

"How did you know I was a soldier?"

"We had quite a conversation while you were half out of it with the atropine. I know your whole family history and military career, for example. There were some things, though, where I wanted you fully aware before I asked you."

Tristan said nothing for thirty full seconds, merely maintaining eye contact with Jack. Such was the malevolence in the boy's tiny face that, despite his best efforts, Jack could not prevent a shudder from racking his entire body.

Finally, Tristan spoke again. "As you saw from my file, Jack, I am twelve years old physically, but I am actually forty-four. I want to keep on living much longer than that. This," he motioned with the pistol again, "doesn't give me the impression that you're here as a fairy godfather to grant me wishes."

Jack opened his mouth to speak but Tristan held up his empty hand. "I'm going to let you tell your story, though. If you convince me beyond a doubt that you are not a threat to me then I will treat your wounds and the atropine poisoning and we'll keep travelling. However, if you don't convince me, I will shoot you where you sit, pack up my stuff, and leave you for the birds and lizards to eat this morning. Fair enough?"

Jack inhaled a large breath through his nostrils and let it out through his mouth. He nodded. "Yes," he added superfluously. He took a bite of his cold food and chewed slowly, his gaze wandering upward to the branches above. He swallowed, took another breath, and regained eye contact with his captor.

"Okay, to properly explain the gun and the knife, I have to go back and tell you about something that happened a few years ago while I was still in the Army. I learned about it while I was in the Watcher Academy. You already figured out what the Watchers do; we observe and record but we don't interfere with the lives of Immortals. Well, there was once a renegade faction of Watchers - we called them Hunters - who thought otherwise and sought to destroy Immortals. They would attack in packs using guns and tasers - even on holy ground - and then take the heads.

"In August of 1999, an Immortal named Siobhan O'Banian survived a Hunter attack on the Isle of Skye, identified some of the Watchers in the area, and retaliated. O'Banian's history had primarily been with the Irish Republican Army so she went back to her roots, so to speak. In fact, she went further than that. She decided that since all Hunters were Watchers then all Watchers were threat and so were their families. She set out to murder all Watcher families and completely dismantle the Watcher organization in Europe.

"This might sound far fetched since O'Banian was only one woman, but she had connections with other Immortals and quickly built a coalition of like minded individuals. They organized themselves very quickly, called themselves "The Council," and began to execute their plan. It wasn't long before Watcher households throughout England were being murdered en masse. Continued Hunter attacks on Immortals only spurred the Council to increased attacks on Watcher families.

"There were two simultaneous reactions to The Council. The Watchers mobilized as best they could and formed an armed section to defend themselves. A little-known agent by the name of Devon Sather rose to prominence during this time. Things were so chaotic and he was so successful that, in fact, he ended up becoming the Executive Director of the Watchers, the leader of worldwide operations, for a time, but that's a separate story. They set up armed guards at Watcher homes and fought off some of the attacks. They didn't kill Immortals, despite wanting to, but it took some intense strong arming from Sather to prevent it.

"What we didn't know at the time was there was movement in the States, as well. Immortals here knew about the happenings in England, also. Someone in The Council, we still don't know who, was a double agent, and was feeding information to another Immortal. That Immortal and some of his allies - we called them The Alliance just to tell them apart - went to England and opposed O'Banian's Council. So rattled was The Council that they relocated to Paris and began their attacks anew there. The Alliance and, strangely, the bulk of the Hunters in Europe, followed them there. So did the armed Watchers. We now had a full-scale three-way war between Immortals, Watchers, and Hunters.

"Most of this war, of course, was reconnaissance-based as each side tried to find the other, and a lot of guerrilla-style attacks against small groups. A lot of good Immortals and Watchers were killed from October 1999 through February 2000. During that time, though, the Hunters in Europe were virtually annihilated and the Council's numbers dwindled from from its original twenty down to six. The Alliance, I'm told, also suffered horribly, and went from twenty-three to eight.

"There was one large-scale battle in Algiers in which seventy-nine of the enemy were killed, but the majority of them were terrorist trainees from other nations. We think only about twenty of them were Hunters. The bit of intelligence which was most telling, however, was the Hunters were not merely Watchers with guns; they were becoming militarized. All sides had noticed a difference in their lethality in Paris but had not been able to identify the source of their training. We don't know how the Alliance became aware of the training camp in Algiers or how they set up the raid that destroyed it, but we're grateful they did.

"Anyway, shortly after the raid, the remainder of the Hunter cell in Europe evacuated Paris and later resurfaced in Edinburgh, Scotland. The Council, Alliance, and Watchers - who by now were tenuously working together under the leadership of the Alliance founder - discovered their whereabouts and followed them there. They tracked the Hunters to an old Scottish castle, infiltrated it, and destroyed the remnants of the cell in a raid. They even identified and killed the commander of the cell, Alan Ottenbrite, who had been the Regional Director for Europe, in that raid. As far as we could tell, all of the Hunters in Europe were dead. The war was over.

"We still had the aftermath, though. The Watchers had suffered terribly, not just in terms of its members in Europe, but as an organization. Weaknesses throughout its entire structure had been identified and had to be remedied. Families had to be compensated. Widows and children needed care. There was so much to do.

"This is the part where I pick up the story about Devon Sather again. Even though he wanted to step down as Executive Director - he'd have been happier as a Regional Director or even a field Watcher - he knew the organization needed some stability at the moment. He decided to stay in place and reorganize the entire Watcher structure.

"That reorganization began from the field Watchers all the way up to the Executive Director. Security measures were increased across the board. Field Watchers were given self defense training: basic martial arts, marksmanship, knife fighting, and they were all armed. The intent, hopefully, was they would never have to use their weapons, of course. Our mission remained unchanged: observe, record, do not interfere. However, we could defend ourselves, if necessary."

Jack leaned back against the trunk of his tree and took a breath. He looked at his captor again. "That is why I had the gun and the knife, Tristan. It's because of the war five years ago. They're for self defense. Nothing more."

Throughout it all, Tristan remained silent, his brown eyes boring into Jack as he spoke. The boy's index finger, extended outside of the trigger guard of the pistol, tapped lightly as he listened. Other than that, he did not move.

 _My God,_ thought Jack. _Here I am spilling my guts - certainly unlike a prisoner should be doing - but what can I do with my own gun in my face? And this kid with the fashion model face who was smiling a while ago is sitting there now staring at me as cold as ice. He looks scary as hell right now, man. Is this what the Immortal who gave him his first Quickening saw the night they met? Am I about to end up like him?_

Jack's collapsed against his tree, physically and emotionally drained from the experience. Mentally, he grinned to himself and reflected on what he had just done. _Jack, old boy, you've just learned a valuable lesson. It doesn't matter how badass you think you are. You learn a lot about yourself when you end up staring down the barrel of an actual loaded gun. It doesn't matter if it's held by an adult or a twelve-year-old. It scares the hell out of you and you start babbling like an idiot._ Jack mentally grinned again. _And he never really pointed it at me, just gestured with it. I'm such a pansy. So much for the big, bad paratrooper I thought I was._

"How old are you, Jack?" asked Tristan, his voice barely a whisper.

Jack was relieved somewhat to see that the Immortal's expression had softened, too. Although his finger was still absentmindedly tapping the side of the pistol, he looked like a little boy again, at least in the face.

"Twenty-five," responded the Watcher.

Nodding slowly, the child stood, his joints and spine popping like a series of firecrackers from his extended time stationary. "Ahh," he sighed. "Sometimes I'm jealous of people who can grow up." He then added, "You should try to stand, too, Jack. Physostigmine can cause diarrhea so you should probably untie your IV bags and take that entrenching tool and baby wipes over there and take care of business before things get too bad."

"So this rolling in my stomach isn't just due to having my own pistol pointed at me, then, I guess?" smirked Jack.

"No, I suppose not," admitted the boy with a tiny grin of his own. "Don't fall over. I won't help you up if you do."

"Why not? Don't you trust me?"

"Not yet. Weakened or not, you're still twice my size and three times as strong."

"Yeah, but you have the gun, little man."

"Yeah, the great equalizer. I'll wait here. You gave me my privacy. I'll give you yours."

"Thanks."

When Jack shuffled back and resumed his seat at the tree, Tristan tossed another meal packet to him. Jack looked up at him, confused.

"It's almost noon. It's lunchtime."

"Oh, well, how time flies when you're being held prisoner."

"I haven't violated the laws of war yet, have I?" asked the boy. "And actually, I hope we're not at war. I'm just worried about my own safety."

"I'm not a threat to you, Tristan."

The boy held up the pistol again. "I'm still not sure about that. Despite what you've told me, I'm still concerned. Maybe I'm just cautious."

"Makes sense," admitted Jack. "I would be."

"Would you?"

"Of course. Look at it objectively. No offense, kid, but as you said, I'm twice your size. I was armed. I was following you for three weeks for an unexplained reason and I had detailed information on you and someone you knew. I knew you were Immortal which means I also knew your particular weaknesses. Why would you trust me on first glance?

"Add to the fact that you're a child Immortal. As I learned only the day you were assigned to me, only four child Immortals still living are over one hundred years old. They don't stay alive by being foolhardy. They're careful. You have every right to be cautious with me. Frankly, and this is putting myself at risk saying this, I'm amazed I'm still alive right now."

"I don't kill people needlessly," declared Tristan firmly.

"And I'm grateful for it," admitted Jack. "Now what else can I tell you?"

Tristan opened his own food packet as he contemplated his answer. "Tell me about the guy who led the Alliance during this Watcher-Immortal War. What was his name?"

"David Ashton."

"Yeah, him. Where is he now?"

"He's Minoan, over four thousand years old. He's been a businessman and soldier for most of his life. It was definitely his leadership of the Alliance that brought about the successful end of the war. I suspect, but I can't prove, he might have had some influence in the reorganization of the Watchers, as well. The last I heard, he was running a private military company, basically a group of legal mercenaries, in England. He and Jonathan Fairbanks are both there, I think."

"Who's Jonathan Fairbanks?"

"One of those four child Immortals I mentioned. He's over eight hundred years old."

"Wow! Do you know how old he is physically?"

"I think your previous Watcher said he was fourteen."

Tristan was silent, a pensive expression on his face. Jack thought he caught the slightest hint of recognition, as well. "I could learn a lot from them, I bet, if I could only meet them."

"You'd have to get to England somehow. That would be the hard part. It's even harder these days with 9/11 and all. You'd need a passport, guardianship papers, plane tickets, all sorts of things."

"Yeah, that does make it harder. I'll have to think about that."

"Do you mind if I ask a question now?"

"Sure, go ahead." Tristan took a bite of cold macaroni and cheese and frowned. "This would be so much better hot," he grumbled, staring down at the plastic bag. "Anyway, go on."

"Why all the walking? Why not just con another bus ticket like you did in Birmingham? You could have been at your destination weeks ago. And where are you going?"

"That's three questions." A cheesy-toothed grin.

"Sorry. I got excited." Jack blushed and took a bite of chicken and dumplings.

"Partly, it was just to have time to think about what I'm going to do next. It was also to throw off anyone who was trying to track me, people like you. I've known about you Watchers for years."

This got Jack's attention immediately. He looked up from his food and stared intently into the boy's eyes.

"Since when?"

The child's face darkened as he fell into his own revery. "Since 1973, sort of, but since 1984 for sure. I was in a park in Richmond playing with some other kids when I heard two men talking on a bench. I thought it was just normal 'old guy' stuff until one of them he had been to Baltimore a two months before and said the name 'Cameron.'"

Jack flinched.

"Yeah, I let the other kids go on and play elsewhere while I dropped back and listened. They were talking about how Penance had been killed a few weeks ago. They didn't have a lot of information so they didn't talk about it for very long, but they used his real name and said something like, 'Time to close the chronicle on him.' They talked about a few other Immortals, I think - I didn't know most of them - then got and left. I saw the same tattoo on their wrists that you have on yours. It also reminded me of when Penance had told me about a friend of his who had a wrist tattoo. I put the rest together. There was a group of people watching us.

"When I saw you following me, I wondered if you might be one of them. I knew you weren't an Immortal or I'd have noticed on the bus or at the station. I still wanted to be sure who you were, though. I had plenty of time to think about it and it turned out a friend of a friend lived along the way."

"So that's why you stopped at that house?"

"Yes. He provided me with the Physostigmine and the lactated ringers that's in your drips, some other medical supplies, and gave me some tips on how to do this a little better. He even let me practice an IV stick on his arms a few times just to be sure I had it down."

Jack laughed aloud. "I had to do that in the Army for the combat lifesaver course. I always hated that part. It turned out to be useful when the time came, though."

"Yeah, it did. You have good veins, by the ways, so I only had to stick each arm once."

"Thank goodness. I always hated being stuck by an incompetent guy with a needle. Hurts like hell. Had a guy do that in Iraq. He was shaking so hard from nerves he bent two needles before he got it right."

It was Tristan's turn to wince. "Yikes."

"So what about the other questions? Where are you going?"

"I'm sure you've figured that out already. I'm going to Clearwater."

"But why? You haven't been there for thirty years."

The boy shrugged. "Curiosity, maybe, to see how it's changed. Mostly, like I said, to hole up somewhere and think. I've been roaming around the country ever since I became Immortal and, except for what Penance and Matt Woodham taught me, never really learned anything that will help me survive. I've been very lucky so far. That won't last much longer."

Jack studied the child for a moment. "Something happened, didn't it? Something to change your mind. You had managed to survive for three decades without formal training before."

Tristan's single laugh was more like a sharp bark. "Yeah, eeking out an existence shivering in the streets or the woods most of the time. Only sometimes finding a family to love me for a few months before I have to explain why I'm not growing and leave. Always afraid some adult Immortal will find me and think he's being merciful or just getting an easy kill by chopping off my head. Not the way to live, Jack.

"I had a near miss on the way to meet R1ghte0us. I ran into a guy who called himself Desmond Lewis. He was one of those "It's God's will" types who thought killing me would be kind. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't run. I had no skill to fight him. I could just tell him I didn't want to die. If a couple hadn't walked by and threatened to call the police, I'd have been dead.

"I pretty much ran all the way to where I met R1ghte0us. When I could finally think again, I knew I not only had to learn what R1ghte0us could teach me, but I had to find someone who would actually teach me how to fight other Immortals, too."

"Penance never taught you that?"

Tristan sighed. He obviously didn't want to speak ill of his friend. "Penance taught me everything he could, but it was mostly trickery, not combat. I mean, how likely is it for a kid my size to be able to stand up to an adult with a broadsword? There has to be a way, though, someone who can show me how to do it. Maybe this Ashton guy, someone who is four thousand years old, can do that, if he doesn't kill me himself." Tristan went silent again.

"You might be in luck. Ashton is the one who primarily trained Jonathan Fairbanks."

"The eight hundred year old kid?"

Jack nodded.

Tristan looked up at the sky. "Maybe there is some hope, then." After another minute of contemplation, he regarded Jack again. "Well, let's get you patched up and able to travel again and then get to Clearwater."

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "This whole thing is surreal. My first month on the job and I've been captured by an Immortal, violated my oath, and now I'm going to travel with my Immortal as a partner. It's like I'm going slightly mad."

Tristan grinned, too. "We're not even there yet. I'm sure things will get weirder as we go along."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack had mended well under Tristan's care. Within another day he was able to walk again without a noticeable limp. Tristan still insisted he rest for the remainder of that day before they continued their journey, though. They still had about forty kilometers (twenty-five miles) to travel before reaching Clearwater and, while they could easily make that distance in two days, Tristan wanted to take it easy on Jack's feet and take three days. While they waited out the rest of the day, the boy snuck away from their campsite to a water source to launder Jack's clothing. The Watcher spent the time updating his notes. Tristan returned all of Jack's gear that evening.

For the sake of appearances, just in case other Watchers were in the area as they travelled, they elected to walk as they had before with several hundred meters between them. Jack continued to put up his best facade of avoiding Tristan's detection until each evening when they would camp together.

"What made you decide to become a Watcher?" Tristan asked him the second night as he built a small fire. "It seems like a guy like you had a career all made for him in the Army."

"One of the guy's in my squad ended up getting accidentally shot during a live fire exercise. It turned out our medic was a Watcher. I saw the medic cut away the guy's sleeve, set his arm, wipe off the blood, and then act like he had never been hit at all. When other soldiers arrived to help, he just played it off like it was all a misunderstanding, but I saw it all. I asked him about it later. He refused to tell me unless I became a Watcher myself. He even had other Watchers show up to swear me to it. That's the short version anyway."

"Whoa! I'd like to hear the long version sometime."

"As with anything, it sounds cooler than it really was. It was mostly a lot of confusion on my part. You should have seen my expression during my time at the Watcher Academy. I spent most of those classes wondering if it could really be true. Then I'd think back to that night and just say to myself, "Yeah, if that could happen, then how far fetched is all of this?""

"You're right. I wouldn't have believed any of the stuff about Immortals until it happened to me. It's like something out of a novel. It's too outrageous." The boy waved his arms out dramatically as he spoke. At the same moment, Jack thought he detected a flicker of movement in the firelight. Before he could say anything, Tristan screamed and recoiled.

Rather than retreating toward Jack as the Watcher expected, Tristan rebounded toward the shadowy attacker, slamming his palm on the ground forcefully. His left hand came up with a slithering one-meter long mass coiling around it. In the light of the fire, Jack could make out the distinctive markings of a Southern Copperhead, a Water Moccasin, as it hissed angrily and buried its fangs in the boy's arm again. "Ooh," cried Tristan, much quieter this time. He reached back toward his pack and withdrew his bayonet. Leaning away from Jack, he placed the snake's head on the grass, positioning the blade ten centimeters behind its head, and deftly decapitated the serpent. Using the blade of his bayonet, he flicked the gnashing head in a parabola deep into the darkness. He then sat up and allowed the snake's body to uncoil from his arm and twitch next to him.

He looked up at Jack as he wiped his knife on the grass. He was somber as he spoke. "I felt him just before the bite. I hit him when I waved my arms. He was just defending himself, but he was a threat after that." The boy's voice dropped again, almost a whisper. "Now he's dinner."

"But you've been bitten, twice. Isn't that going to kill you? How can you be thinking about food?"

Tristan grinned, but in the light of the fire it looked more eerie than cheerful. "Copperhead venom is one of the least potent of all the poisonous snakes in North America. If I were a real boy, I might have a problem, but I'm Pinocchio. I just look like a little boy." Tristan's voice was far away, almost a whisper again. "I should be okay. I'll probably get tired and feel a little sick later, but I won't die."

He looked back at the still slowly squirming snake. "Can't say the same for him. We'll have already feasted on him and gone to bed before his bite has had any real effect on me." His tone and expression brightened. "Let's cook."

As they ate hot snake, supplemented by camp rations and Jack's granola bars, Jack couldn't resist chuckling to himself. Tristan looked up, his face shiny with spots of snake grease. The boy held a length of serpent in one hand, half a granola bar in the other, and a contented expression on his features.

"What's so funny?" he asked, his teeth reflecting in the firelight.

"I was just thinking about what I had read about you in your records."

"And…?"

"If ever there was a better example of a boy who was brought up by Special Forces soldiers - by snake eaters - this is it."

Tristan stared silently at Jack. For the briefest of moments, the Watcher thought his joke had been misunderstood or unappreciated. He then realized it was a trick of the light. The boy was trying to contain his laughter. Finally, though, Tristan could control himself no longer and crumpled into a ball on the ground, giggling like mad. Jack allowed himself to join the fun at last.

When Tristan regained his breath, he slowly sat up and wiped his eyes. "See?" he pointed out, still racked by tiny giggles. "I told you things would get stranger before we got to Clearwater."


	8. Know What's Meaningful

Author's Note: Except for Nancy Coffey, who is fictitious, all description of the Saint Matthias Lutheran Church located in Clearwater, Florida is completely factual. Though nowadays it does have a much smaller congregation than I describe, it was much larger at one time. I would like to extend my gratitude to the pastor and staff of St. Matthew's for their cooperation and assistance in my preparation for this story.

"Life can play tricks sometimes, you know

You think you got everything

When you got nothing at all

The only way you know where you're going

You gotta take a fall, you've got to lose it all"

Coming Home -Lionel Richie

23 April 2004

Clearwater, Florida

"This is where I lived." Tristan pointed to his left, diagonally across the street. "Over there, at 24 North Neptune, that's where Penance, lived with his foster parents." Tristan sighed softly. "104 North Mercury Avenue," he said wistfully, "will always have a place in my heart, though, no matter how much time goes by."

"That's a beautiful house," commented Jack. It was 2049. Jack stood behind a meter-tall brick sign for Oak Lake Condominiums across from the ranch-style house. Tristan knelt in front of the Watcher, only his head visible above the sign. The boy's arms were crossed on top of the sign with his chin resting on top of his hands. There were virtually no traffic. With the dimming light, the condo fencing, and the overhanging branches, the pair was practically invisible.

"Thanks. Mom's obviously had Dad busy over the years. It was a different color years ago. Same style as that but I think it was red. She likes pastels."

"How do you know they still live there?"

"The mailbox still says 'Dahl' on it."

Jack put his head in his hand in the classic facepalm position and said, "Duh."

"Besides," added Tristan. "I can see them through the living room window, too. They're slow dancing to some tune and I can see their faces as they turn." After a moment of contemplation, he remarked, "Dad still has that weightlifter physique he always did even though he never graced the door of a gym. They still look so different now, though."

"It's been thirty years, Tristan."

"Yeah, I have to keep telling myself that." The boy raised his head and looked at his small hands. "I haven't changed at all," he whispered," and they look like they're my grandparents now."

Jack could think of nothing to say to that. He knew what he did say was wrong the moment he said it. "Are you going to meet them?"

Tristan shook his head. "No. I can't do that." He stood abruptly and picked up his pack. "As far as they know, Tristan Dahl was butchered by a child killer in 1972. How do you explain to an elderly couple that he's actually been living on the streets like a little rat for the last thirty years?"

Jack tried to salvage something from his faux paux. He followed close behind Tristan as he spoke. "I think what would matter to them is you lived."

Tristan spun around and glared at Jack. Even in the darkness, Jack could feel the fire in the boy's eyes. Even though his voice did not rise above a normal level, there was strength to it. "Live? Trapped in the body of a little boy? Never able to grow up? Doomed to walk the earth as long as I can afraid that someone is going to cut off my head before I take my next breath? Too weak and unskilled to even fight for my own survival? What kind of life is that, Jack? I'm treading water until I drown. I'm not living. I'm existing. One day I won't even be doing that anymore."

He paused, taking a breath before speaking again. "You know I was raised very religious, right? I used to pray a lot. When this first happened, I asked God why he did this to me. It didn't make any sense. I mean, in a way it seemed cool, you know, to be a kid forever, to be able to run and play and have fun all the time. But there's the other side of it all, too, the adults with swords trying to kill you part. When you stop and think about it, that takes all the fun out of being a kid. Yeah, I could go to the playground and have fun on the swings or climb on the monkeybars, but I could very easily become some guy's little snack of a Quickening while walking home that night. Bit of a bummer, huh? Not what I call living.

"Well, I thought God had answered me by giving me Penance as a friend to teach me. Penance was religious, too, a bit anyway. I called him a corrupt Catholic and he called me a dirty Protestant, but it was all in fun. I got what I thought were whispered responses, little suggestions in the way of lessons in the way to survive, but it never seemed like a complete Godly answer, if you know what I mean."

Jack nodded. Tristan was calmer now.

"You asked me why I came back to Clearwater. I guess you could call it soul searching. Before I left Tuscaloosa, I woke up one night with a thought in my head, almost like it had been put there, by God maybe. "Go to the home you should have," it said to me."

Tristan held his hands out to his sides. "I don't know where that is. I figured this was a good place to start. I came here to see where God takes me." With that, the boy turned and continued walking.

Jack grinned and chuckled. "I must say, kid, your sense of faith is so much greater than mine. I'm impressed."

xxxxxxxxxx

They walked along Northeast Coachman Road for nearly forty minutes with no destination in mind, just chatting. To Jack's relief, Tristan's mood had become cheerier within minutes of leaving his house.

 _Thank God, this would have been an awful walk otherwise. It's actually been quite fun, now that I think of it._

They crossed onto Frontage Road, flipped a coin, turned left, and played word games as they walked. This became quite an event for them both when they realized they both spoke Spanish and German, as well.

"Where shall we go now?" asked Jack. They were at the three-way intersection of Frontage Road and Sunset Point Road. "Straight, left, or right?"

Tristan looked around at his feet. "Ah," he cried victoriously, picking up a small stick with a fork at one end. "Whichever way the fork lands is where we go." He spun the stick in the air. The pair watched expectantly as it landed on the sidewalk.

"To the right, then," declared Jack.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Hold up," said Tristan. Contrary to his words, he started jogging to take a closer look at a building they were approaching.

"What? It's a church. So what?"

As he got closer to the illuminated sign, Tristant slowed. He turned to Jack and pointed. "Not just any church," he declared, grinning. "A Lutheran church."

"I'm not tracking."

With a little hop, Tristan added, "I'm Lutheran. This church wasn't here in 1972. Let's check it out." The boy ran ahead. As Jack walked on, he recalled another bit of trivia about the town and Tristan's family. The most predominant Christian denomination of Clearwater was his own, Catholicism, but Tristan's family, being of Norwegian descent, were of the Lutheran faith. Jack shrugged. It made sense.

He was close enough to the sign to read it now and could make out more than a vague outline of the buildings now. Saint Matthias Lutheran Church. The church was not a grandiose affair like many he had seen. It consisted of two moderately-sized white buildings in the center of a paved parking lot. Behind the lot were several subdivisions.

 _Rather simple especially if you compare it to some of the cathedrals the Catholic church has._

Jack noticed that Tristan had curbed his enthusiasm upon reaching the parking lot. The boy was slowly prowling around the perimeter of the more shadowy areas. He finally stopped and stood, looking at the buildings intently. Jack came up behind him.

"There are lights on," said the Watcher, "and a few cars in the lot. There's some kind of event still going on in there. Do you want to go inside?"

"I do," replied Tristan, "but I don't want too many people to see me. Too many questions, you know?"

"I'll check it out. Do you see that basketball goal over by the fence? Hide over there until I come back out. No one should see you there."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack left his pack with Tristan before walking through the front door. _Now,_ he thought, _do I try to sneak around stealthily or just walk boldly through this place? Not really the place for stealth, I guess. Too much light and open hallway._

Jack strode down the main hall, passing a series of information boards and a name tag table. He grinned at the tag table. Southern hospitality at its best. He could hear voices as he walked and slowed. He assumed they were in the direction of the sanctuary. He didn't really want to reveal himself to a large group of people, either, if he could avoid it.

The moment's pause gave him time to notice something he might have otherwise missed, a sign near a door he was about to pass. It read, "Nancy Coffey, Pastor." Jack frowned in confusion briefly before remembering that the Lutheran church began ordaining female clergy sometime in the early eighties. _Tristan might not blink at such a thing but I guess we Catholics are still a bit sexist in our thinking._

The door was partially open. Jack could see a brunette woman in her late thirties hunched over an open Bible, a legal pad next to it. She held her forehead in her left hand and lightly tapped her teeth with the pen in her right. Jack's frown turned to a grin. _Deep in thought. I almost hate to interrupt her._

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Jack softly, lightly tapping on her door as he spoke.

"Oh!" The pastor dropped her pen and looked up, her eyes slightly widened.

Jack held up both hands and took one step back. "I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am. I have an important matter to discuss with you. May I come in?"

"Absolutely," said the woman, standing. "Sorry. I was just surprised. Come in. Come in." She walked around the desk and extended her hand. She was dressed casually in khaki pants and a polo shirt. "I'm Nancy."

"I'm Jack." They shook. Stepping into her office, Jack felt a sudden urge to cross himself and blushed. Nancy noticed.

"Been a while since you've been in a pastor's office?" she asked, grinning.

"Not counting the chaplains in the Army, the last time was when I was seventeen and I was being reprimanded for staring too long at Stacy Logan. "Impure thoughts," Father Baxter said and had me do fifty Our Fathers and one hundred laps around the field. I remembered that when I stepped in here."

"So you're Catholic, then." Nancy settled back into her seat behind the desk.

"Yes, ma'am." Jack took one of the two chairs in front of the desk.

"So I suppose this is not about a Friday night conversion." Nancy grinned.

Jack returned it. "No, ma'am, more of a Friday night request for sanctuary."

Nancy's grin faded slowly. "Sanctuary?"

"Does the Lutheran church even do that sort of thing?"

Nancy waved her hand. "Let's worry about that sort of thing later. What's going on? What are you into?"

"Oh, no, it's not me," clarified Jack. "It's a twelve-year-old boy." Nancy's expression changed from one of polite interest to concern. "And before you ask why I don't go to the police or family services, at the moment they are exactly the sort of thing that would make his situation far worse. He's been on the road for several days and needs a place to hide for a few days. He needs to avoid all sorts of extra questions."

"But…"

Jack held up his hand. "I'm sorry to interrupt again. Please let me finish. I'm only at liberty to say certain things. Anything else he can say if he decides to do so. He's in a sticky predicament. He needs to think and decide what to do next. He's Lutheran himself and would be more comfortable being here than camping out in the woods. If you're willing to let him stay here - discreetly - then I can bring him to you." Jack smirked. "He might eat you out of business, though. The kid can put away some food, if you let him."

Nancy sank in her chair. She blinked several times, looking at Jack. Finally, she leaned forward and sighed. She glanced down at her Bible, her gaze instantly falling on a particular verse. She read aloud, "And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me." Looking up, she said, "Well, Jack, it seems I already have my answer. Let's meet this boy of yours."

"Let's wait until the others have left, I'd say," suggested Jack. "He'd be a lot more comfortable if there were fewer prying eyes to see."

xxxxxxxxxx

Twenty minutes later, Nancy came back into the office and motioned to Jack. He stood wordlessly and followed her outside into the night air. He was about to call for Tristan and then thought better of it. He chose another name instead.

"Trent, you can come out now."

Tristan emerged from the shadows slowly, his backpack over his left shoulder, his expression one of trepidation. Jack led the introductions. Nancy, this is Trent Carson. Trent, this is Nancy Coffey, the pastor of the church."

"Hi, Trent," said Nancy, extending her hand carefully. "Jack has told me about you." When she saw the boy's eyes dart nervously toward the man, she interjected, "Not a lot. Just that you need help and that you'd like to stay at my church for a little while. That's all. He said anything else was up to you to tell me." Her hand was still outstretched.

Slowly, cautiously, Tristan took her hand. "Hi, Nancy. I'm Tri- Trent." He shook her hand with a firmness that would be expected of a young gentleman rather than a boy. Nancy smiled.

"That was no dead fish. I see someone taught you about a proper handshake."

Tristan smiled meekly. "My dad told me about it long ago. He said, "If you want people to respect you then you have to have a good handshake.""

"Hah!" laughed Nancy, a wide grin on her face. "I've got a man in my church like that. Martin Dahl. He's always correcting the young men and boys on their handshakes and other manners. He's a role model for many of the men in the church. A real gem. His wife, Dana, is a pearl, as well."

Beside Nancy, Jack flinched slightly at the mentioned of Tristan's parents. He was thankful for the darkness. It concealed the flicker of recognition he knew had to have been present in the boy's eyes. For his part, Tristan played his part well though Jack thought he detected a trace of a smile at the edges of the boy's lips.

"He sounds like a great guy," replied Tristan.

"Oh, he is. You should meet him."

"That's not really why I'm here, miss."

"Oh, yes, you're just seeking refuge and place to think for a few days. Well, I can certainly help you out with that. Are you sure you wouldn't rather come to my house and stay with me and my husband rather than the church? It would be more comfortable."

Tristan looked at Nancy, at Jack, and then at the church building, as if he were actually considering the offer. "No, ma'am. I know this sounds weird but the church would be better for me right now. I can explain later, if that's okay."

 _Better as far as being holy ground and therefore safe from other Immortals,_ thought Jack.

"Sure, we can talk later," assured Nancy. "Right now it's late. Let's get you settled down for the night." She looked over at Jack. "And what about you?"

Jack was taken aback. He hadn't considered himself. "Uhm, I've actually been walking with him for a while. If you can just give me a lift to the nearest hotel, I can get a room for myself. I'll be fine."

Nancy nodded. "Alright. Let's take care of this little guy."

They went into the main church building. She led them down the hallway, talking as they went. "We have a children's clothing drive and a local food bank so I'll be able to give you some clean clothes and decent food in the morning. For now, I'll let you sleep in my office. I have a cot, pillow, and blanket in there. Sometimes you just need a quick power nap to recharge the batteries, right?"

"Thank you, ma'am."

"There are no events scheduled tomorrow so we can work out a better place for you to stay for a while at that time. I'll come back around nine o'clock and fix you a late breakfast. You come along, too, Jack. Well, I'll come pick you up. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in a while yourself."

Jack lowered his head and blushed. "Thank you, ma'am."

"And enough with the 'ma'am' and 'miss' from both of you. It's Nancy. I mean it."

"Yes, ma'am," they chorused together and then at each other and laughed.

Nancy chuckled. "Well, at least I see that Trent can laugh now."

xxxxxxxxxx

There was a Super 8 hotel within a five minute drive of the church. Jack decided to spoil himself and booked a king-sized bedroom for a week, using his OTI credit card to pay for it all. He was tempted to order room service and have a late dinner. Two things kept him from it; the desire for a shower and sleep and learning the hotel did not offer room service. Jack shrugged.

 _I guess I shouldn't expect too much for $55 per night, should I?_

Jack dropped his pack by the door and surveyed his room. It seemed absolutely extravagant compared to his life of the last several weeks. He planned to enjoy every bit of it. The air conditioner was already running. He checked the temperature setting. 22°C (72°F). He set it down a little to 20°C (68°F). It would be a somewhat chilly after a while but he would like it for now. Next, a shower was calling his name.

After nearly a month of sleeping in the woods and bathing in streams, the shower felt absolutely heavenly. He stood under the jets of hot water for ten minutes, his body slowly turning, relishing in the sensation, before he began to actually begin the work on cleansing himself of the residue of weeks of travel.

Seeing his face in the mirror was quite a shock. The four weeks' worth of facial hair had changed his appearance considerably. He spent several minutes carefully shaving it all away. He even did away with the goatee he had been trying to fashion in the beginning, deciding it just was not his style after all. Finally finished with his work, he rinsed his face and examined himself in the mirror. Nodding with satisfaction, he walked back into the main room, clad only in a towel.

He trundled over to his pack again, picking it up. _Was it really this heavy the whole time?_ He set the pack on his bed and pulled the laptop case from inside, turning to place it on the table behind him. He withdrew the computer and switched it on, turning back to get some clothes while the machine ran through its boot cycle. He was tempted to just stand in the room for a few minutes and relish the feel of the cool air on his skin. He kept moving, though. If he stopped now, he knew he would be asleep in seconds.

Clad in underwear and a t-shirt, both smelling a bit of river water, Jack sat at the table and logged onto the Watcher VPN (virtual private network) and began typing. He had not filed any report with his regional headquarters since he had been assigned to Tristan Dahl. It was time he told them his whereabouts, at least.

0032 24 APRIL 2004

FIELD WATCHER JOHN PATRICK CONNELLY REPORTING

LOCATION: CLEARWATER, FLORIDA

RECEIVED ASSIGNMENT OF IMMORTAL, TRISTAN DAHL, FROM FIELD WATCHER, GLEN SIMONETTI, ON 27 MARCH 2004. DAHL PROCEEDED TO TRAVEL BY BUS FROM BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA AND THEN BY FOOT FROM TALLAHASSEE TO CLEARWATER, ARRIVING ONLY FOUR HOURS AGO. DAHL TRAVELED BY WAY OF BACK ROADS AND FORESTS AND TOOK SEVERAL WEEKS TO REACH THIS DESTINATION. HIS INTENT IS STILL UNCLEAR. DAHL HAS MET WITH THE PASTOR OF THE SAINT MATTHIAS LUTHERAN CHURCH AND HAS

APPARENTLY OBTAINED PERMISSION TO REMAIN THERE FOR A TIME AS HE IS STILL THERE. I HAVE CHECKED INTO THE SUPER 8 HOTEL FOR ONE WEEK NEAR THE CHURCH AND WILL CONTINUE TO SURVEIL DAHL TO SEE WHAT DEVELOPS.

END OF REPORT.

Jack read over the report once and decided it had enough information to satisfy the higher ups for now. He had given them enough to keep them happy and left out all of the parts that might cause consternation. He smirked. No one would want to know about him being captured and interrogated by the Immortal he was supposed to be tracking. That just wouldn't do. He hit "Send" and logged off the server. It was time for bed.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Wow! You look totally different this morning, Jack."

Grinning as he slid into Nancy's car, Jack replied, "I try to clean up well for my hosts. I wasn't in my best form last night. I might smell a little like river water, though. Trent and I have both been living in the woods for the last week or two."

"And why is that, may I ask?"

"It would be best if Trent answered that ma'am, uh, Nancy, if he chooses. It's his concern."

"Well, at least tell me why you would smell like river water."

"Because that is where I washed my clothes." Jack was still grinning as if his words were the most natural response one could have. His voice had just enough sarcasm to say otherwise.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Nancy almost shouted as she drove. "Trent, too?" She turned her head briefly from the light weekend traffic to look at her passenger.

Jack nodded. "Yes."

"That does it. After breakfast, I'm at least going to do laundry for you two. You should have clean clothes to wear, for goodness sake."

"But…"

"No buts." It was Nancy's turn to hold up a hand and interrupt Jack. The little woman's voice rose forcefully with those two short words. Jack stared silently for a moment before leaning back in his seat, shaking his head and chuckling. "What's so funny?" demanded Nancy.

"I was just thinking to myself when you said, 'No buts,' Wow! That's quite a command presence you have there. Have you ever considered a career in the military?"

Nancy laughed. "You're not the first to say that. So you were in the military?"

Jack nodded again. "I was in the Army for a little over six years."

"Why did you leave."

"I found another calling."

"And what is that?"

"I'm a historian, of sorts."

They were at the church now. "Of sorts?" asked Nancy, as she exited the car. She opened the back door and withdrew a single paper grocery bag.

"It's difficult to explain," continued Jack. "It involves a lot of field work. It's almost like being in the Army again."

Nancy shook her head, smirking. "Well, I hope you get paid better for this work."

"I don't know yet. I haven't had the time to even check my bank to see how much I actually get paid. Sure, they covered stuff like that when I first came on board, but I had shiny things in my eyes distracting me."

Nancy shook her head again. "Let's see how our little man is doing."

As if to answer her, Tristan stepped out of her office. "Hello," he chirped, a cheery smile on his face.

"My word," exclaimed Nancy. "I have two little gentlemen who got all cleaned up for me." She looked about dramatically. "But there isn't a shower in this building. Where…?" She let the question hang in the air.

"The sink in the bathroom," answered Tristan with a wide grin. "I have a washcloth and a bar of soap. Running water was all I needed."

Tristan was tempted to go into more detail but chose to keep them short for Nancy's dignity. He giggled as she blushed anyway. Behind her, Jack was smiling, too. Tristan also noticed a flash of recognition in the Watcher's eyes. The boy was sporting the same striped V-neck t-shirt, slim fitting jeans, Timberland boots, and denim jacket he had been wearing at the bus station in Birmingham. He had obviously run a comb through his long hair, as well.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Nancy finally breathed. "I have two boys of my own. They're fourteen and twelve. You should meet them. I think you'd have fun."

Tristan's eyes brightened with interest briefly, but only for a second. "I wish I could. I can't let anyone know I'm here." Before the mood of the moment could be further dampened, he offered, "May I take the bag?"

"Yes, thank you."

Nancy led the way to the kitchen and took charge, divvying out assignments to each of them. Man and boy each complied immediately and, to Nancy's astonishment, perfectly.

"You've both obviously worked in a kitchen, before. Now spill. Where did you learn this?"

"I didn't actually do any cooking," said Jack. "Did a lot of cleaning and other grunt work on KP - kitchen police - in the Army. When I was a junior soldier, we'd sometimes get assigned as worker bees to help out the cooks with all the ancillary work other than cooking. It could be anything from scrubbing pots and pans to mopping floors and setting tables. It was a lot of boring, tedious work, but it had its advantages, too."

"Like what?" inquired Nancy.

"No one bothered you while you were on KP, such as pulling you away for even worse details - a detail is any sort of crappy work other than your job, like cutting the grass or picking up trash. You also got to eat first so you got all the best food."

"I thought the military had bad food."

"Oh, no, usually if you were in garrison - that means on post - you usually had pretty good food. It's not as good as the Air Force or the Navy, but it's still very good. At least good enough that you need to watch what you're eating or hit the gym pretty hard afterward to keep yourself off the weight control program."

"Weight control?"

"The fat bodies. The overweight group." He grinned at the pastor's embarrassed expression. "It's more politically correct the other way, isn't it?"

"Yes, I guess it is." She turned to Tristan. "And what about you, Trent?"

"I've helped my mom and dad cook breakfast and dinner since I was six years old. They started me out with simple stuff like setting the table and let me progress to actual cooking as I got older. It became a sort of family fun time. I really enjoyed it."

Jack sensed the part Tristan left out of that short story. "I miss those days," he could almost hear in his head. _God, am I getting too attached to my assigned Immortal? It's only been a month._

Nancy and Jack sipped black coffee as they waited for biscuits to bake in the oven. Tristan opted for a cup, as well, though his was heavily laced with cream and sugar. Nancy told them about the various ministry efforts of her church: the food pantry from which part of their breakfast came which was actually part of their meals on wheels program; their clothes for kids drive; their support of the Children's Hospital in Tampa; their disaster relief efforts; and their military chaplaincy program; among several others. Her enthusiasm for her calling was contagious and her two guests were captivated as she spoke.

She did not let herself get distracted by her soliloquy, either, and continued to direct her ad hoc kitchen staff to various tasks as needed. Jack was cracking and whisking eggs for omelettes, Tristan was dicing ham on a cutting board, and Nancy was peeling and quartering peaches. Occasionally, Tristan would reach over and swipe the peals, tilting his head back and stuffing them all in his mouth before looking back at Nancy with a mischievous closed-mouth grin, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel. This earned a motherly smirk and shake of the head from the pastor. "Boys," she whispered and continued her story.

Nancy was describing the church's support, limited though it was she was, sad to say, to several of the halfway houses in the area, when she was disrupted by the sound of Tristan's cutting knife clattering to the floor. "Shit!" she heard the boy exclaim. Turning quickly, she took in the scene: the knife on the floor, several drops of blood on the cutting board, Trent already reaching to apply pressure to his lacerated left middle finger with his right hand as he turned toward the kitchen sink.

"Oh, my," she cried. "I'll get the first aid kit."

"No," forcefully replied Tristan involuntarily.

Nancy was dumbfounded. She stood stock still, looking at the boy's back as he ran water over his hand. "What do you mean, "no"?"

She saw the small boy hang his head and whisper something under his breath. It might have been, "Damn." Behind her, she heard a soft sigh from Jack. She took a few steps to the side so she could see both of them, her arms akimbo.

"Okay, it's clear both of you are hiding something from me. I want to know what it is right now."

"I can tell you - or rather show you - part of it right now," said the boy, shutting off the tap and shaking the water from his hands. "After that, let's finish making breakfast. The biscuits are almost ready. It would be a shame to let them burn."

"Uhm." She looked at both of them. Jack nodded. "Okay. I'll go along with that, I suppose."

With that, Tristan turned. Brown eyes met green as he slowly raised his left hand, splaying his fingers so she could clearly see them. Not a trace of the cut that had so clearly been there a moment ago remained on his finger. His expression was matter-of-fact. Nancy's, however, was one of utter amazement, her arms gradually falling to her sides. She stepped closer, taking his hand in hers, inspecting his fingers. She met his gaze again.

"But...but how?"

Tristan grinned. "After we finished cooking, remember? Don't forget those poor biscuits."

The rest of the preparations were in virtual silence. Nancy's directions were concise; Jack and Tristan responded automatically. In fifteen minutes, they had four ham and cheese omelettes - Jack insisted on having two for Trent - bacon, sliced peaches, orange juice, and coffee for all three of them. They ate standing at the same island in the center of the kitchen they had use for food preparation.

"Now," said Nancy, her voice firm as she cut into her omelette. "I believe you gentlemen have some explaining to do."

She had seen the expression Trent and Jack were now exchanging with each other from her own two boys in the past. "Who first?" they were silently asking the other. To her surprise, it was Trent who motioned to spoke first. At the slight flinch to her right, apparently Jack was equally taken aback. Trent cleared his throat as he finished chewing his bite of peach and swallowed. He took a pull from his glass of juice and then looked across the table. Nancy thought his expression seemed strangely unlike a twelve-year-old now, almost like an adult who had done this several times before.

"To start out, let's be completely honest. My name is not Trent Carson." He took a breath, held it, let it out. "It's Tristan Dahl."

Nancy dropped her knife onto the island. "Tristan? Martin and Dana's son?" Tristan nodded. "But… but I know the Dahls. They're son has been dead for…"

"Thirty-two years," finished Tristan. "His body was found on a Clearwater pier in 1972, stabbed to death, apparently a victim of a child murderer who was on a spree at the time. I'm that same boy. I haven't aged since that time. I can't age, can't grow up, and I can't die unless someone cuts off my head. For all intents, I'm immortal."

"Immortal?" Tristan nodded again. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"You just saw how quickly I can heal. Would you like to see it again?" He held his fork over his hand, prepared to stab.

"No, no, don't do that. I'm just trying to come to terms with this. That's all." She looked over at Jack. "And you knew this, didn't you?"

Jack nodded. "Yes, I did."

"And what is your connection to him? You said earlier you were a historian."

"In a way, that's true. I'm part of an organization that observes and records the lives of Immortals. Typically, we don't get involved with them like I have with Tristan but, in his case, I had no choice."

"What do you mean?"

Tristan laughed. "I detected him following me and then I drugged him and tied him up for two days. We've been travelling together since then."

Nancy couldn't resist a small chuckle. "So you're not very good at your job, eh, Jack?"

"Actually, he was very good," replied Tristan. "I just have friends that taught me how to spot people like him. Kind of like "it takes one to know one" sort of thing."

"Okay, and what was that about cutting off heads?"

Tristan was more somber as he responded. "That's the only definite way to kill an Immortal. You could shoot me in the heart and I'll get up in a minute or two and there'd be no hint of a wound, but if you take my head, that's it. I'm dead forever."

Nancy furrowed her brow, her gaze going to Jack again. "Last night, you said Trent, I mean Tristan, would feel safer here than anywhere else. You actually said "more comfortable" but I interpreted it as safer. Why is that? It's not just being Lutheran, is it?"

Jack looked at Tristan. "Do you want this?"

"No," the boy said. "Go for it."

"You're right. It's not just because he is Lutheran, thought that part is true. Immortals are forbidden to fight on holy ground. It's the only place they are safe from each other."

"Fight? So there are more than just you?" She looked at Tristan again. "And why would you be fighting?"

"Power, usually. When one Immortal kills another…"

"By cutting off his head?" added Nancy.

"Yes. When that happens, the victorious Immortal becomes the center of this tremendous transference of power from the dead Immortal. This transference is called a Quickening. It looks like a great electrical storm and the winning Immortal is in the middle of it all, receiving everything the dead Immortal ever had. It's all consuming and completely indescribable."

Nancy's eyes were wide, the whites showing all around her pupils. "You've experienced this yourself." It was not a question.

"Yes," Tristan verified, nodding solemnly. "Once, several years ago." He did not elaborate on the event.

After several moments of silence, Nancy continued, "So you wanted to hide out here for a while so you would be safe from other Immortals?"

"Yes, and have time to think about where I should go and what I should do next."

Nancy shook her head again, placing her palms against her temples. "Excuse me. I'm still trying to come to grips with the fact that you're, what, forty years old?"

"Forty-four."

"You're forty-four years old, six years older than I am, yet you still steal peach peels off the cutting board like my youngest son while making silly faces. Is that just acting, then?"

"Maybe I can explain that," interjected Jack. Nancy swiveled her head to face him. Even Tristan looked on with interest. "Tristan wasn't acting, though I can say from experience watching him that he is good at it. Physically, biologically, he is still a twelve-year-old boy. He grows older in years and experiences in life, but nothing at all about him changes physically. Even the neural pathways and endocrine system, which change for us when we hit puberty, for him will stay exactly as they were thirty-two years ago."

Jack's gaze moved from Nancy to the child Immortal. "Tristan is a snapshot of the boy he was he he experienced his first death in 1972. He will never change physically beyond that. But here," Jack tapped his own temple, "he can learn and recall far more than we can." How many languages do you speak, Tristan, and what are they?"

"Six. English, obviously, duh, Norwegian, German, Spanish, Vietnamese, and Bahnaric."

"What is Bahnaric," asked Nancy.

"It's one of the languages some of the Montagnard tribes in Vietnam."

"Have you ever been to Vietnam?"

"No, but I used to live with a guy who has and he spoke both Vietnamese and Bahnaric fluently. We would speak those languages to each other whenever we didn't want others to know what we were saying. It was fun."

"How long ago was this?"

"About eight years ago."

"So you haven't spoken those two languages in eight years?"

Tristan shook his head. "And, to answer you next question, I still remember them. I haven't spoken Norwegian since I left my parents and Clearwater thirty years ago. Unless we had company, it's all we spoke at home. I could still do it now if I had to."

"Incredible," admitted Nancy. "Where did you learn German and Spanish?"

"I lived with a German family for a while in the seventies. That's the first one. I picked up some Spanish over the years, but I got most of it when I lived with the Vietnam veteran."

"He spoke Spanish, too?"

"He could speak some, but he wasn't completely fluent. He lives in Dalton, Georgia and there are a lot of Mexican immigrants there. I learned it just by interacting with them. I'd stand out if I went to Spain but I could probably pass for a native speaker in Mexico."

"My goodness. What else can do you?"

"That's my problem. Other than learning how to subsist off of the land - another great thing I learned from the vet - and becoming pretty good with computers just recently, I really haven't learned any useful skills, at least not from an Immortal's perspective, anyway."

"You mean fighting skills?" Nancy asked. Tristan nodded.

"So that's part of what you're wanting to think about while you're here, how you can learn to fight?"

"Yes, like I said to Jack once, I've lived so far by luck. I can't depend on that anymore. I have to learn to defend myself against people that want to hurt me, people that look at me like I'm an easy target. At the moment, they're right." With that statement, Tristan drained his coffee cup and set it down on the island. Only then did Nancy realize that he had been eating his meal during the entire conversation and had cleaned his plate.

"My word, you were hungry." She looked at Jack. "And you were right about his appetite."

Jack smirked. "What you didn't notice is he ate yours, too." He pointed at the empty plate in front of her.

Nancy glanced down at the plate and then up at the boy's playful grin. "Hey," he chided happily, "you can't let good food get cold."

"Why, you little devil," cried Nancy, tossing a dish towel at his head. Tristan stepped aside and caught the rag, laughing as he threw it back at her.

"There's more," he jeered, still chuckling.

"That's not the point," responded Nancy with a snicker of her own as she caught the towel only to drop it on the island. She then ran around the island.

Jaw dropping and eyes widening, Tristan realized a game when he saw one. "Ah, the chase," he announced, dashing out of the kitchen. Nancy was right behind him. Both were laughing like school children now.

Jack stood in the kitchen all alone for a moment. "What the hell just happened?" he asked himself. Looking down at his rapidly cooling breakfast, he shrugged and returned to his meal. Somewhere in the church, he presumed Nancy must have finally caught Tristan and initiated a tickle fight. The sound of the boy's joyous laughter echoed throughout the halls.


	9. I Used To Be

Author's Note: The game of Uno was invented in 1971 by Merle Robbins, a barber in Reading, Ohio. He started out selling the game out of his shop. His son, Ray, would hand the game out to his students. Ten years later, Merle sold the rights to Uno to International Games for $50,000 plus royalties of ten cents per copy.

Source: Wikipedia

13 September 1971

Clearwater, Florida

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away

Now it looks as though they're here to stay

Oh, I believe in yesterday"

"Yesterday" - Michel Colombier / John Lennon / Paul McCartney

"Hey, Pentan, have you heard about the killer?" Tristan leaned across the aisle so his friend could better hear his whispered question. Around them, other children noisily filed into the classroom and sought their desks.

"Yeah, it's all my foster parent were talking about over the weekend. They were debating whether to even let me out of the house."

Across from Tristan sat Pentan Helmsley, his newly declared best friend. The two had met on the first day of school on the school bus only the Tuesday before and become fast friends as only boys of that age can. By the end of their first day together, they seemed to share some sort of mental connection which their teacher had already noticed; the two of them could simply meet each other's gaze and either engage in cooperative action or, more often, break into mutual laughter, usually to the consternation or confusion of others.

It was the laughter that surprised the few people in town who knew of Pentan. In all other situations, he was the most serious of boys, his body always on edge and eyes always scanning his surroundings as if he believed monsters were behind every door. Around his new friend, Tristan, however, most of this outward security consciousness faded away; he actually seemed to relax and enjoy himself around this companion. There was still the occasional visual check of his surroundings, but it looked more like a boy simply looking around rather than a suspicious deer searching for predators. The Thursday before, at the end of the third day of school, when Pentan's foster mother had heard Pentan laugh at one of Tristan whimsical comments, the sight and sound of his smile and laughter was so unfamiliar that she had been momentarily unsure she was picking up the right child.

"Yeah, I saw the paper my dad was reading," added Tristan. "It said the guy has raped and stabbed seven boys around our ages to death in the last five months." Tristan was pensive for a few seconds. "What does "raped" mean?" he asked his friend.

"You don't want to know," replied Pentan immediately.

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes."

"Worse than being stabbed multiple times and left in a ditch?"

"Yeah, 'cause usually you're left alive to deal with the pain of it afterward."

Tristan regarded his new friend, sensing something unsaid. When he spoke again, his voice was even lower than before. "It's happened to you?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Pentan's expression was dark. He glowered at his desk, picking at an old gash in its top with his fingernail.

Tristan nodded. "Okay. We won't." Squirming in his desk, Tristan blinked. He waited until Pentan finally looked up at him again, his iron blue eyes penetrating deeply into the soft brown of Tristan's. There was still a lot for Tristan to learn about his new friend, that was true.

With a shrug and a smile, Tristan asked, "So, do you think your foster parents will let you come to the beach and to my house after school tonight? Have you ever had Norwegian food? We're going to have whale steak and potato dumplings tonight. Dessert is going to be _krumkake_ which is like a crunchy cone cookie with this awesome sweet cream inside. It's all so good. Came you come over?"

The prospect of exotic food seemed to brighten Pentan's countenance. "I should be able to. Macie, that's my foster mom, really seems to like you and you're just two houses down from me anyway. I can have her call your mom when I get home."

The starting bell rang. The last of the children took their seats and slowly the chaotic sound of their voices settled to a dull murmur.

"Good morning, class," greeting Mrs. Katherine Raynings, their sixth grade teacher.

"Good morning, Mrs. Raynings," said the class almost in unison.

xxxxxxxxxx

The doorbell rang. Pentan stood at the front step of Tristan's house nervously. He was not nervous himself but rather for his foster parents, Phillip and Macie. To his astonishment, Macie's call to the Dahls had resulted not only in Pentan being invited over for dinner, but his foster parents, as well. The boys' trip to the beach had been postponed in favor of some kind of new card game the Dahls wanted to show them.

They, or the adults, at least, had dressed for the occasion. Phillip wore the best suit he had. This wasn't saying much given his meager salary. He had purchased it off the rack at a thrift store and it was just slightly too large for him. Macie, on the other hand, had chosen had chosen a checkered house dress, also a thrift store acquisition and the only one she could find without too much serious wear to it, and topped it off with a pair of patent leather pumps. Pentan had sighed with relief when he had been granted relative freedom in the clothing department. He had opted for the simplest of all things; jeans, a striped short-sleeved button down shirt, and sneakers. Needless to say, Pentan was not comfortable in this attire. Simple as it was, he did not even dress this formally for school. Why did he have to dress this way to eat a whale?

 _Because I'm here to eat a whale with my foster parents and their afraid of the socially higher status of the Dahls. Phillip and Macie Zumwalt are a sheriff's deputy and a librarian, respectively, and the Dahls are tenured professors at the University of Tampa. So what? Tristan and I live across the street from each other and go to the same school. There's no need for pretense. I bet the Dahls aren't dressed like this._

The door opened and revealed the truth of Pentan's thoughts. Anders Martin Dahl was dressed in tan slacks and a black knit shirt. He was an imposing figure, a fit, thirty-five year-old standing one hundred eighty-eight centimeters (six feet, two inches) tall. He looked more like a professional bodybuilder than a college professor. He greeted the trio with a broad smile.

"Phillip, Macie, and Pentan, I presume. I'm Martin," he breathed in a mellow, soothing voice that Pentan imagined was captivating in the lecture halls. The man extended a large hand to each of them and shook. "Please, come in," he said and stepped aside, his right arm moving along in a sweeping gesture.

A few meters into the room could be seen a woman maybe two years younger than the giant man. Dana Lynn Dahl was remarkably tall herself, around one hundred seventy eight centimeters (five feet, ten inches). Like her husband, she was also dressed casually in slacks and a simple blue blouse. She also wore a bright smile as she stepped forward to welcome the guests.

"Hello, Phillip. I'm Dana," she beamed, shaking his hand before turning to Macie. "Hello, Macie. Thank you for coming." She turned her attention to Pentan. Their gazes locked. Very slowly, she placed her hands on his shoulders. "May I?"

Pentan looked up at her quizzically before the meaning of her question came to him. Ever so slightly, the corners of his lips turned upward. He nodded. Dana slowly pulled the boy into a gentle hug. "Whenever you're here, Pentan, you're part of the family, just like you're our son."

Before he realized he had done it, Pentan's arms had wrapped themselves around Dana's narrow waist. "Thank you," he whispered. He struggled to keep the emotion out of his voice. "I know I just met you, but that means a lot."

"Hey," jeered a playful voice from across the room. "Let me at least hug your mom before we start trading parents. I want to make sure it's a fair deal."

Pentan unwillingly extricated himself from Dana's arms amid the chuckling of the four adults. Dana mussed his hair as he backed away and smiled at him. Pentan hoped the mists in his eyes were not actual tears, as well. _How long has it been since someone actually hugged me? Ten years? The Zumwalts haven't even hugged me yet._

Sitting on the arm of the couch on the far side of the room and nibbling on the end of a strawberry, Tristan watched the rest of the group with cheerful eyes. His new friend pretended to glare at him for his comment.

"How do I know they're really your parents?" chided Pentan. "They're so tall and you're such a shrimp."

"Look who's talking, little guy," Tristan fired back.

"I'm still taller than you by half a hand, midget."

"Pentan!" hissed Macie, unsure whether to be offended or not.

"Well, he is only eleven," added Dana softly.

"Yeah," said Tristan simply, sticking out his tongue, still smiling as he did it.

Phillip and Macie were looking at each other tensely. Their eyes crawled nervously to the faces of the Dahls. They were smiling. Finally, the Zumwalts realized the truth. This was a game to them. Phillip and Macie looked at Pentan and Tristan. Pentan was still glaring. Tristan was still smiling just like his parents. Then the two boys started to laugh. And the Zumwalts started to breathe again.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dinner could either be described as simple or exotic depending on one's perspective. The main meal consisted of whale steak with a brown gravy. The steak had a crunchy yet spongy texture and a combined aroma of the herbs and spices used to prepare it. Pentan thought it was heavenly. Accompanying the steak were three Brussels sprouts per plate and a round object served with sour cream that Tristan called a _krub_ , the potato dumpling he had mentioned earlier. Pentan ate it all, even the Brussels sprouts. Everything was too good to waste. The adults had dark red wine with their meal; the boys drank grape juice.

Much to the Zumwalts' surprise, the boys were incredibly well behaved at the table. They spoke very little, mostly letting the adults do the talking. Sure, they shared sidelong mischievous glances with each other, but that was all. Whenever a new food was served, Tristan would explain it to Pentan and the Zumwalts would pay attention, as well, though they made an effort not to appear to be doing so. Despite the differences from traditional American cuisine, the Zumwalts thoroughly enjoyed their meal.

"Wait one moment, please," requested Dana as she stood. "I'll get dessert."

Tristan leaned over and nudged Pentan. "Oh, you're going to love this."

Martin Dahl grinned from the head of the table. "I think you're right," he announced to everyone still seated. "You will love dessert. It's Tristan's contribution to the meal."

"You made this?" asked Macie.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Tristan as Dana came back in the room with a tray and set it on the table. "We all made something. Mom made the _krups_ and Brussels sprouts, Dad made the steaks and gravy, and I made these. They're called _krumkakes._ It means 'bent cakes.'"

Phillip and Macie turned their gaze to Martin. "We didn't know you were cooking, too. We should have at least brought the wine."

Martin raised his hand and smiled. "It's no trouble at all. It was a pleasure. As Tristan loves to so often call our cooking, it's our family fun time."

Pentan and the Zumwalts looked down at the tray. Before them, they saw a dozen folded light brown cones filled with a light, fluffy white cream. Surrounding the cones were an assortment of strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries.

"Oh, let me get some milk," said Dana, and rushed back into the kitchen.

"Yeah, milk is great with these," added Tristan. He reached out and grabbed a strawberry.

Pentan eyed the tray hungrily. "They look incredible, Tristan. Are you going to be a chef?"

"Only if I can make cookies and pies. Although, you know, a quiche is nice. It's like an omelette pie."

The rest of the table chuckled as Dana returned, her arms laden with glasses and a carafe of milk. Martin passed the glasses down, filled his own, and then passed the carafe. "Okay, everyone, let's enjoy Tristan's work."

There was silence around the table as everyone took a _krumkake_ from the tray and took a bite. Tristan glanced at Pentan, seeing with great delight that his friend's eyes were closed in quiet contemplation of the dessert as he slowly chewed the crunchy cookie shell.

"Tristan," said Phillip, after he had swallowed, "I can think of no other word except delectable. Thank you very much. This is wonderful."

Tristan blushed. "Thank you, sir."

Macie took a sip of milk and seconded her husband's comment. "Oh, yes. This is superb. May I have the recipe?" She looked back and forth between Tristan and Dana.

"Absolutely," responded Dana, as Tristan turned a darker red and Pentan poked him with a grin. The boys giggled.

"Do you see that, Phillip?"

"Yes." Turning to Martin, he said, "Pentan is always so serious, but with your son he is happier and more at ease than we have ever seen him."

"Tristan has that way with people. He's a naturally happy boy and he can bring it out of others, as well."

"Well, if you'll permit it, we're willing to let Pentan come over here to visit Tristan any time."

"Without a doubt, Phillip. For the afternoon, overnight, whatever the boys would like. They're obviously thick as thieves already. Who are we to keep them apart."

The boys in question had stopped playing and were paying attention to the conversation fully by now. "Really?" chirped Tristan.

"Truly," said Martin, smiling again.

"Woo hoo!" cheered Tristan, leaping up from his chair to run to Martin and wrap his arms around him. " _Takk, pappa_. (Thank you, daddy.)"

"You're welcome. Now, you boys go to your room and play while I show our guests a new card game."

"I don't think I've ever seen Pentan scamper off that quickly, either," remarked Macie, grinning. "He's going to love visiting here."

Phillip added with a light chuckle, "I'm not surprised they both grabbed another _krupkake_ , I hope I said that right, as they left." To accentuate his comment, he took another himself. "So, what is this game?"

Martin and Dana stood and began clearing the dishes except for the dessert tray, saucers, and milk glasses. "It's something a friend in Ohio sent to me recently. A barber up in Ohio invented it earlier this year and is selling it out of his shop. It's called Uno. You try get rid of all of the cards in your hand. It sounds simple but it can be a challenge. Let me help with these dishes and then I'll get the deck.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Cool room."

"Thank you."

Pentan licked some cream from his _krupkake_ as he entered. "And you have a phonograph, too. Can I put on a record?" He turned to face a grinning Tristan. "What?"

"Just when you said 'phonograph,' that's all. Most boys would say 'record player.'"

Pentan shrugged. "I'm a little different, I guess."

"I can tell that just by listening to you talk. You've got an interesting accent. What did you speak before you learned English?"

"Spanish," said Pentan matter-of-factly.

"That's not a Spanish accent."

"Are you a language expert now?"

Tristan chuckled again. "No, but I hear a lot of languages and accents when I'm with Mom and Dad at the university. It's fun to listen to them even if I don't know what they're saying. There's a guy there that travelled all around the world when he was younger. He sounds kind of like you. Have you done a lot of travelling?"

Pentan barked out a single laugh as he scanned Tristan's records. "You could say that. I've been to more than a few countries, here and there. And speaking of all eclectic things, what about boys whose record collections include Nat King Cole, Beethoven, Schubert, Frank Sinatra, and Ella Fitzgerald but then also has The Beatles, The Who, The Monkees, and The Rolling Stones?"

Tristan shrugged himself. "I like all kinds of music. What can I say? So, what are you going to play?"

Pentan held up Nat King Cole's _After Midnight_. "This one."

Pentan held his _krupkake_ in his mouth as he extracted the record from its sleeve. He lifted the phonograph arm and carefully placed the needle on the edge of the record. A few crackles of sound passed through the speakers before the sound of Nat King Cole and his trio began to fill the room. Crunching down on half of the cookie, he relished both the taste of the dessert and the music.

"That's better," he said, before noticing some of the titles on Tristan's bookshelf. "I think I spoke too soon when I said "I'm a little different." Let's see here. There's some interesting stuff here. _Chemistry for Kids_. _The Federalist Papers. The Anti-Federalist Papers. The Great Composers. Music Theory for Beginners. Introduction to Botany. The Book of Five Rings. Meditations. The Prince._ And that's just a few. You've read all of these?"

"Yeah," Tristan replied with a nod. "The stuff I haven't read yet is on this shelf."

Pentan's eyes scanned the second shelf. "So you're really into history, music, art, botany, and chemistry? And literature, of course, since both of your parents teach it at university."

"Yep," grinned Tristan proudly, flopping onto his bed and gazing over at a framed painting on his wall. Pentan walked over to the print and examined it closely.

"This is a print of the "Large Flowering Sensitive Plant," from Robert John Thornton's book, _The Temple of Flora_ , in 1799."

"Wow! You know it?" Tristan sprang to his hands and knees on his bed, facing his friend's back with excitement.

Pentan nodded. "I've learned a lot in my lo...in my life. Sometimes it even comes in useful." He turned to face Tristan. "So with all this interest in music, history, and botany, what are you doing wasting your time at Skycrest Elementary when you could be at a private school specializing in those things?"

Tristan smiled and twisted around to sit on his bed. Pentan sat next to him. "Mom and Dad offered to let me go to a private school last year. I thought about it for a while and told them I wanted to stay where I was until I was high school age. I figured I needed to be a boy while I could; I could be a scholar in a few more years. They agreed." Tristan waved his hand across the bookshelves. "Besides, I can always read whenever I'm not being challenged enough at school."

"You mean every day?" ask Pentan.

Tristan was almost choking on his laughter such was the force of it. "Pretty much," he was barely able to finally say. "And speaking of challenges…"

Still laughing, the smaller boy leaned over and wrapped his arms around his friend, using all of his weight to try to pull him to the floor. Pentan grinned and went along with the game. The two boys tumbled onto the carpet, giggling as they pretended to fight each other. Both put in a good effort; the end result became obvious early on, however. Small as he was, Pentan was still larger than Tristan by several centimeters and about five kilograms and it did not take too long for this to have an effect on their wrestling match. After only a minute, he had a still smiling, though winded, Tristan pinned to the floor.

"What was that all about?" ask Pentan. His tone had the semblance of anger though his expression bespoke the enjoyment he'd experienced, as well.

"Just for fun," responded Tristan. "It also seemed like a good ending to our little spat downstairs when you first got here."

Pentan chuckled and shifted his position atop his friend slightly. As he moved, his hand lightly brushed Tristan's jaw. "Yeah, that was very funn… Shit!"

Pentan pushed himself off Tristan and across the room. He stared at his friend wide eyed. His face was ashen. His expression bespoke sheer terror. Tristan sat up slowly, confusion clearly written on his face. He cocked his head to the side. With concern in his voice, he asked, "What is it, Pentan?"

With glacial slowness, the color came back into Pentan's face. The fear drained away at the same sluggish rate. Pentan's respiration gradually began to return to normal, as well. The whole time Tristan was quietly watching him, anxiety keeping him frozen in place. Wiping his hand across his suddenly glistening face, Pentan finally spoke.

"It's just muscle spasms. It happens to me sometimes. Where's your bathroom?"

Silently, Tristan pointed.

Pentan stood and walked down the hall. He entered the small room, turned on the light, and shut the door. He lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down. He could already feel the hot tears sliding down his cheeks as he slammed his coiled fists onto his knees.

"Damn it," he hissed through clenched teeth. _The only friend I've had in years has the same curse I do. He just hasn't realized it yet._

Lowering his head onto his knees, Pentan wept silently for several minutes in mourning for the tragedy his friend would eventually know.

 _I hope it is a long time coming, my friend. Oh, God, let it be a long time, please._

xxxxxxxxxx

"G7."

"Hit. Cruiser. Sunk." Between the boys were two open Battleship game boxes. Tristan lay on his stomach, his chin cupped in his hands, his bare feet kicking in the air. Pentan was similarly sprawled on the other side. Tristan smiled at his friend. "Two straight games. Good job."

Pentan smirked over his board as he sat up and began to clear his pieces. "I've never met anyone so happy about losing a game. You're certainly unique, Tristan, and your happiness is contagious."

Sitting up himself, Tristan shrugged. "It's a game. It's supposed to be fun. Someone has to win and for that someone has to lose. I just enjoy playing. If it were chess or Go, I'd take it more seriously, but this is just Battleship. There's no real strategy or thought to it. It's just fun."

Pentan perked up. "You play chess and Go, too?"

"Sure."

"I play chess, of course, but I've never learned Go. You'll have to teach me."

"Anytime. Next time you come over?"

"How about Friday? You can stay over."

"I'll ask Phillip."

"Ask me what?"

The boys looked up from their game. Phillip stood at the door, his hand poised to knock at Tristan's open door. Martin Dahl stood behind him, partially concealed in the dark hallway.

"If I can stay over here Friday night?"

Phillip turned to Martin who nodded. Facing the boys again, he said, "Looks like there's agreement on this end."

"Cool! Thanks, Phillip." Pentan closed the Battleship unit and handed it to Tristan before reaching for his socks and shoes. Tristan set it in the box with the other set and placed the top over it. Behind them on the phonograph, the last chords of _The Long and Winding Road_ ended the opening notes of _For You Blue_ began.

Tristan caught his friend in a hug before he could leave the room. "I'll see you Friday, Pentan." He added another statement, this one in Norwegian, a mistake he sometimes made when he got too emotional, " _Du er min beste venn._ (You are my best friend.) _"_

Pentan responded immediately, " _Og du er min._ (And you are mine.) _"_

Tristan stepped back, his hands still on Pentan's shoulders, his face bright with pleasant shock. Behind Pentan, Martin Dahl and Phillip Zumwalt had similar expressions, though Phillip's was more simple surprise.

"You speak Norwegian?" asked Tristan.

"It's been a while, but yes, some." Pentan smiled meekly. "Is that okay?"

"Ha ha. You're just full of surprises." Tristan hugged him again and then walked him to the bedroom door, an arm around his shoulders. " _Det er alt vi snakker om fredag._ (That is all we will speak on Friday.) _"_

xxxxxxxxxx

Pentan came over to Tristan's house every day that week. There was plenty to keep them young boys entertained. They climbed the trees in the backyard and and pointed out constellations from the upper branches, ate ice cream on the back deck, chased each other around the yard, and generally acted as boys do. Both of them, particularly Pentan, let whatever minor pressures of their lives slip away when they were together.

Perhaps the best fun they had was with their neighbor's dog, Ajax. A large Alaskan Malamute, Ajax stood sixty-eight centimeters (two feet, three inches) high at the shoulder and could easily dwarf either of the boys if he stood on his hind legs. A gentle giant who was allowed to freely roam the neighborhood, Ajax was a favorite playmate of many of the children in Clearwater. Pentan was trepidatious, at first, when he met the massive canine but he quickly overcame this when Ajax, after they both regarded each other for several seconds, Ajax placed his forepaws on Pentan's shoulders and began to lick his face. Pentan's laughter cemented their relationship from that point.

This particular Thursday, Ajax had joined in the boys' game of chase, sometimes as the one being chased, sometimes as the one chasing. Boyish laughter and barks filled the afternoon air. Finally, when they were all pleasantly winded, the dog flopped down onto the grass and two children, wiping the sweat from their brows, leaned back against his panting body to look up at the slowly darkening sky. If the dog could smile, there would have been smiles all around.

Pentan chuckled to himself as he caught his breath. "I don't know what it is, but something about the smell of this dog makes me think of Scotland."

Tristan turned to face his friend, still using Ajax as a pillow. One of his hands, extended more for comfort than anything else, landed lightly on Pentan's chest. Pentan rested a hand atop it without a thought. It was an innocent, childish gesture. Behind Tristan's head, Ajax continued to pant softly.

"Yeah. I lived there for...a while with a guy and his family. I couldn't pronounce his real name so I just called him Uallas. He had a little girl named Struana and we played together all the time. Uallas taught me a lot of useful stuff. Whenever I smell certain things, though, or sometimes just when I look up at the stars, I think about when I was with them. I even think about them whenever I see a tartan pattern. Weird, huh? As strange as it seems, I think Scotland was one of the most important times in my life. I really learned a lot about myself."

Tristan looked at his friend's profile. He could clearly see Pentan's crooked nose from where he lay and thought about asking him about it but the pensive expression on the boy's face stopped him. Pentan's one visible eye was staring up at the few stars in the sky. _You've been to a lot of places, Pentan. Where are you now?_

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day after school, the boys decided to make up for their delayed trip to the beach. After two quick sandwiches at Tristan's house, they hopped on their bikes and pedaled easily down the street. Ajax trotted alongside them merrily. They had a twenty-eight minute ride to the beach and were in no rush. Turning right on Cleveland Street, they settled in for a bit of a ride. Even the dog seemed to know he had a way to jog and was pacing himself.

When the eight kilometer ride was concluded, the boys dropped their bikes and kicked off their shoes. They shucked their jeans to reveal the swim trunks they wore underneath and bent to remove their socks. Tristan looked over at Pentan as he did so.

"What's that in your sock? Is that a knife?"

"Yeah, it's called a sgian dubh."

"Skee-an doo?"

"Yeah, you said it right."

"Why do you carry that? Hey, wait? You took off your socks on Monday and I didn't see it then."

"For protection. And that's because I hid it." Pentan grinned.

"Protection? From what?"

"From bad people. You never know these days."

"You mean like the killer we heard about?"

"Yeah, that's one possibility. There are others."

"Like what?"

"That's not why we're here, is it? To talk about who can hurt us?"

Tristan smiled. You're right. It's not." He removed his last sock and slipped out of his shirt. He dropped it all in a pile on top of his bike and picked up his two towels and ball cap. "Let's go find a spot."

Two and a half hours later, the boys lay on their towels basking in the 33°C (91°F) sun, catching their breaths. Ajax rested next to them. They'd had a busy time frolicking in the water, wrestling in the surf, chasing each other and the dog up and down the length of the beach, building and destroying a spectacular sand castle, and trying - unsuccessfully - to catch small fish by hand in the shallows. Ajax had enjoyed himself playing with the other children, as well. Now it was time to enjoy the light breeze and relax. Tristan, had he fully realized it himself, was also doing one other thing, occasionally watching the bikini-clad girls as they walked the beach.

Sitting up his elbows, Tristan craned his head back and looked at the hotels several hundred meters behind them. "Strange," he said. "The people at those hotels pay money for rooms and a pool when there's a perfectly good beach right here."

"Some people don't appreciate nice things when it's right in front of them," opined Pentan, an arm over his eyes.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

Tristan giggled. "Another after this one?"

"Sure."

"Why is your nose crooked like that?"

Pentan uncovered his eyes and sat up in the same manner as Tristan. "It's a long story. I won't bore you with the details of it. I just decided not to have it reset. It seemed to fit me somehow."

"Why?"

"My middle name is Cameron."

"Bent nose."

"You know Gaelic, too?" Pentan was wide-eyed.

Tristan grinned. "Well, I already knew your name, so I looked up its meaning. It's a weird little something I like to do. Kind of like trying to figure out someone's personality by their name." Tristan sat up on his knees, facing Pentan. "So your first name, Pentan, means 'enclosed farm' and Helmsley means 'a clearing belonging to the Helm family.' Now we add 'bent nose' to that." Tristan tapped his chin. "Interesting."

Pentan sat a little higher on his elbows. "What about it?"

"Well, I could get all deep with it, I guess. If we say you're living on a farm but you're currently lost in the woods, you want to get back home, right?" Pentan nodded. "You're in a clearing and don't know which way to go. People always say 'follow your nose' but you can't. It's crooked. It will always lead you the wrong way. You can't get home. Kinda sad."

Pentan cocked an arm back and punched Tristan in the shoulder. Grinning, he said, "Don't write children's stories, Tristan, unless it's for the Brothers Grimm." Settling back on his elbows, he added, "What about your name?"

"My name is a mess. Mom and Dad are both literature professors and they're both fans of the tale of Tristan and Iseult. When I was born, they wanted to name me after the knight in the story. Well, Dad wanted to name me Garrett and Mom wanted to name me Tristan. They debated it for weeks and finally decided to do both, but they would let chance decide which would be first and second. Do you know what they did?"

Pentan shook his head.

"They rolled a die," said Tristan, giggling. "Mom won so I'm Tristan Garrett. They still laugh about that. Anyway, Tristan means…"

"Bold. From _drest_. It's Gaelic."

"That's right. And Garrett is Teutonic and means 'strong spear.' Dahl is the only part of my name that's Norwegian, like Dad. It's from the word _dalr_ which means 'valley.' So what's all that mean? A bold, strong spear in a valley?" Tristan looked down at himself briefly and grinned. "I think they were a little off on that one. I'm a bit too small to be bold or strong."

"Oh, I don't know. You didn't break when I punched you. Or maybe I need to do it again."

With that, Pentan sat up and pounced. Tristan only had time to raise his hands and catch his friend by the shoulders as the larger boy's weight knocked him backward. Tristan squirmed underneath the assault of light punches and tickles to his ribs, but was only able writhe and laugh in response. Finally, he began to deliver in kind to Pentan with similar results. Before long, both boys were snickering and rolling in the sand, one temporarily gaining advantage over the other before the roles reversed again. Ajax lifted his head off his paws briefly and barked once in encouragement before going back to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Let's stop here," called Tristan. "Mr. Kaulitz has great candy."

"I don't have money for that. Phillip and Macie said they might start giving me an allowance next week."

"No problem. My treat." The boys set their bikes by the store's entrance and walked inside. Ajax lay down by the bikes and closed his eyes. The boys were only a few hundred meters from the beach, barely within the touristy part of town. They had donned most of their clothing for the return trip, but had opted to merely tuck their shirts into the backs of their jeans and enjoy the cooling night air on their skin. No one said a word about their attire as they entered the shop.

"Hi, Mr. Kaulitz." Tristan waved cheerily with a grin.

"Hello, Tristan," replied the middle-aged attendant behind the counter. He looked over the rims of his glasses. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Pentan," said Tristan, putting an arm around his friend's shoulders. "He's new in town. I'm showing him around. I told him this is where he can find the best candy."

Mr. Kaulitz beamed. "Well, thank you very much. Have a look around."

"Thank you." Tristan tugged Pentan along to the appropriate aisle.

"See? Didn't I tell you? Isn't this great?" Tristan turned to see his friend's expression. It was everything he had hoped. Pentan's jaw had dropped.

"Wow! This is incredible."

"Get whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Really. I'm buying."

The boys filled their hands with a variety of hard and soft candies and carefully made their way back to the counter, only dropping a few pieces during the trip. Tristan scampered back to pick up the stragglers. Depositing it all on the counter, they watched as Mr. Kaulitz placed the candy on a scale.

"That's quite a bit of candy, boys. Do you plan to eat all of this tonight?"

"Most of it," grinned Tristan.

"Well," smirked Mr. Kaulitz. "I know two boys who won't be getting much sleep tonight." He put all of the candy into a brown paper bag and rolled up the top. "That will be $2.80, please."

"Here you go," said Tristan, handing him three one dollar bills. "Hey," he asked Pentan as Mr. Kaulitz handed him his change. "Should we get some bottled sodas, too? They'd go great with the candy."

Before Pentan could answer, the bell over the store's entrance jingled. Tristan saw his friend wince and go pale as if he suddenly felt a great pain. Pentan's eyes flickered upward to a convex mirror from which he could see the person who had entered. Tristan looked over Pentan's shoulder at the new person, as well.

The man was slender and young, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with blond hair and fierce blue eyes. Above his left eyebrow was a ten centimeter horizontal scar only partially concealed by his long hair. He was dressed simply in blue shorts, a white t-shirt, and sandals. He only glanced at the boys as he passed, hands in his pockets, but there was something in his expression that was odd to Tristan. Pentan, though, seemed more distraught.

"Uhm, no, I don't think we need sodas. It's going to be hard enough to carry the candy on our bikes. Besides, didn't we tell your mom we'd be back in the next twenty minutes?"

"Oh, yeah," said Tristan, playing along. "Good night, Mr. Kaulitz. Thank

you."

"Good night, boys."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I think you're starting to get the hang of this now, Pentan." Tristan looked down at the small 9X9 Go board and the placement of black and white stones on it. He nodded. "You won that one."

The corners of Pentan's mouth turned upward as he unwrapped another hard candy. "Only took four games. You're right, though. The rules are simple, but applying them is harder."

"Want to play again?"

"Sure. Let's put on another record, too. Maybe after this game we can move up to a larger board. Maybe."

With The Who's _Who's Next_ album playing in the background, the boys settled down on the floor for their next game. Tristan opened with the standard Japanese statement of, " _Onegaishimasu_." (Please (begin or enjoy the game)). He didn't bow, only inclined his head, since he was again lying on the floor propped up on his elbows. The spoils of their shopping trip was spread out across the floor next to the board. The paper bag which had carried the candy now had its top carefully rolled down and had become a repository for the wrappers. The boys' shoes and shirts were lying on the floor in a corner of the room.

Again, Pentan showed improvement and Tristan had to spend additional time looking for the proper placement for his stone each time. He grinned. _Love Ain't For Keeping_ was almost complete when Tristan announced he had no additional moves to make. Pentan did the same and they scored the board. Pentan had won again by one and a half points.

"I think your right, Pentan. I think you can move up to the larger board now."

A 13X13 board may not sound like it is much larger than a 9X9 board, but it is a significant change for a beginner in the game of Go. A stone can be placed anywhere on the board and its strength or weakness is relative to its proximity to other stones. There are eighty-one possibilities at the beginning of a 9X9 game; there are one hundred sixty-nine at the beginning of a 13X13 game. On a standard 19X19 board, there are three hundred sixty-one possibilities at the start of the game. It is actually more complex than that as it is postulated there are more variations to the game of Go than there are stars in the sky. Pentan was beginning to realize this now.

"This is so much harder than chess ever was."

"Right," exclaimed Tristan. "I hear people at the university say that mathematicians will one day be able to map out all the possibilities of chess. No one ever says that about Go."

"I don't think many people in the States have even heard of Go, to be honest."

"That's probably true. Dad had to special order all this from Japan for me. It cost a lot of money and I had to do a lot of extra work around the house to earn it. It took me almost a year."

Pentan smirked. "So I guess I can't call you a spoiled rich kid since you have to work for your toys, huh?"

"Hah, we're definitely not rich and maybe they do spoil me a little bit but no, not a rich kid." Tristan stuck out his tongue and grinned. Pentan returned it.

They began their new game. Tristan allowed Pentan a certain number of handicap stones - advance moves to make up for the difference in their skill level - at the start and made his first play. Unlike chess, which seeks to kill certain pieces on a board, the object of Go is to control more territory on the board than one's opponent. Chess pieces have clearly delineated, predictable paths of movement which must be followed. A Go stone can be placed anywhere on the board. This leads to much more flexibility of thought on the part of both players of the game.

"Don't go easy on me. I learn more from losing than winning."

"Don't worry. I won't," assured Tristan, holding his next stone between his pointer and middle finger. The clicking of stones on the board continued.

Tristan waited until fifty or so stones were on the board before he asked his question. "So what happened at the store?" he queried, placing his stone and looking at his friend.

Pentan looked up from the board. "What do you mean?"

"You went white as a sheet as soon as that guy came through the door. It was almost like you sensed him coming. You got even worse when you saw him in the mirror."

Pentan's gaze fell to the carpet. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." Tristan's voice was soft, reassuring.

Pentan sighed and looked up again. "Okay. Sometimes I get these feelings when bad people are nearby and, well, I felt it when that guy came in the store. I felt this ringing in my head and when I saw him in the mirror there was this weird sort of hunger on his face when he looked at us. Did you see it?"

"He did look odd. I wasn't sure what it was, though. He just kept walking.I was more worried about you because you looked so scared."

"I was scared and I just wanted to get out of there and as far away from him as fast as we could."

"Do you think he followed us?"

"I don't think so. I was checking as we rode back. Besides it was pretty dark by then."

"I hope you're right."

"Whose move is it?"

"It's yours."

xxxxxxxxxx

The bright light of the next morning awoke Tristan from his slumbers; that and a full bladder. He shifted slowly in his bed trying not to wake the person next to him. He grinned to himself as he watched his friend sleep. Pentan had the slightest bit of a snore when he inhaled. Nothing too loud; it was barely noticeable. _That crooked nose of his probably._

As parents around the world will attest and as Tristan was now noticing, children who sleep in the same bed together whirl around like little tornados and can become all entangled with each other. Some parents even take advantage of the situation and photograph the results for posterity and entertainment. That had not happened here. Tristan saw, however, that since his legs had been drawn up at the knees, his ankles had become wrapped around Pentan's legs. One of his arms was also clamped between Pentan's side and his own arm. It would have been a funny Kodak moment had someone been there with a camera.

They had slept on top of the covers so at least Tristan did not have to deal with that problem, as well. With measured slowness, he carefully extracted his hand from his friend's side without any noticeable result. Now, the hard part. He gently twisted one foot around until he thought he could gradually slide it free. The greatest challenge would be the one between the mattress and Pentan's leg. Tristan unhurriedly pulled on that foot, bringing his knee closer to his chest. He felt Pentan shift slightly and heard a soft, baby-like moan. Tristan looked up. His friend's eyes were slowly opening.

"Sorry to wake you," he whispered. He reached out and lightly stroked the boy's long hair like a puppy as he said it. As he did so, he noticed for the first time the little gray nubs of hair just in front of his ears. "You can go back to sleep."

"'S'okay," mumbled Pentan softly, yawning. At the same time, he stretched out his limbs, freeing Tristan completely.

Tristan rolled off of the bed, stumbling slightly in his own sleepiness, and made his way to the bathroom. When he came out, he found Pentan leaning a shoulder against the wall, his eyes mostly closed, waiting his turn. "I'm going to get some cereal," he said as he passed. Pentan nodded lethargically, brushing a shoulder with Tristan as he entered the bathroom.

Tristan found his mother in the living room curled up on the couched with a cup of coffee and reading a magazine. Even though his footsteps were nearly silent, she looked up as he approached. The family spoke Norwegian in the house and that is how she greeted him.

" _Hei kjære. Vil du at jeg skal gjøre noe?_ (Hello, dear. Would you like for me to make anything?) _"_

Tristan stopped at the couch and bent to give her a hug. " _Nei, takk, mamma. Jeg har frokostblandinger. Hvor er pappa?_ (No, thank you, momma. I'll have cereal. Where is daddy?) _"_

 _"Han er på sitt kontor._ (He is in his office.) _"_

Tristan nodded and went into the kitchen. Having only one child, the family had no need for the third bedroom in the house and had long ago converted it into an office for the two professors to use to work from home. Tristan found the box of his favorite junk food cereal, Sir Grapefellow. Saturday was the only day he could have it and he poured two large bowls. Pentan joined him in the kitchen, took one look at the bowls, and nodded his approval.

From the living room, the boys heard the smack of a kiss as Martin Dahl entered the room. They then heard his voice as he said, " _Jeg ser min flotte kone. Hvor er min vakre gutt? Sover han fortsatt?_ (I see my gorgeous wife. Where is my beautiful boy? Is he still sleeping?) _"_

Grinning widely, Tristan bounced into the living room and announced, _"Nei, Jeg er her, pappa._ (No, I'm here, Daddy.) _"_

With a playful growl, Martin bounded over to his son, bent down, slipped an arm around the back of his thighs, and picked him up with one arm. He hugged the boy to him, running his free hand up and down the child's bare back, eliciting happy squeals, wiggles, and grins the whole time. Tristan enveloped his father's neck with both arms and pulled him close. When he pulled back, Martin touched his son's nose with a fingertip and asked another question.

 _"Nå, min kjære gutt, hvor er min andre sønn gjemmer seg?_ (Now, my dear boy, where is my other son hiding?) _"_

Pentan had stepped into the threshold of the kitchen to watch the events as they unfolded. He had been standing there with a tiny smirk on this face as father and son engaged in their frivolities but now he was being brought into it. His jaw dropped before he remembered Dana's words. _I'm part of the family here._ It was not like he could have hidden anyway. Tristan swiveled in his father's arms and pointed directly at him, that spirited grin still on his features. Martin waved him over.

 _"Kom hit, Pentan._ (Come here, Pentan.) _"_

Pentan took a few steps and Martin met him halfway. Stooping, the tall man picked him up in the same manner he had Tristan. Tristan put an arm around him.

 _"Er det ikke så bra?_ (Isn't that better?) _"_ he beamed.

Pentan could not resist a smile of his own. _"Jeg innrømmer at det er fint._ (I'll admit it is nice.) _"_

With a chuckle, Martin lifted each boy over a shoulder and went for a walk around the house. He made sure to bounce with each step. Every fourth step or so, he would do a double-tap to their backs, bottoms, or legs to invigorate them further. Sometimes he'd just shift his shoulders as he walked and would always get the desired, laughing, "Whoa!" from each boy as he did so. The giggling from the two children was the only fuel he needed to keep going.

After a complete circuit through the house, he lowered the grinning boys to their original positions in his arms and said with a smile, _"Jeg ser at jeg forstyrret frokosten din. Gå og spis._ (I see that I interrupted your breakfast. Go eat.) _"_ He lowered the boys to the floor and they scampered off the kitchen, still laughing.

As Tristan and Pentan reached their bowls of cereal, they could hear Dana say, _"Jeg er ikke sikker på hvem som hadde mer moro. Du eller dem._ (I'm not sure who had more fun. You or them.) _"_

Martin replied, _"Forhåpentligvis, dem. Men det var morsomt._ (Hopefully, them. But it was fun.) _"_

The boys brought their cereal to the table and went back to get glasses of orange juice. Dana joined them in the kitchen. Briefly, she spoke English as she refilled her coffee cup, "Would you boys like to watch television now?"

Tristan checked his watch. "Sure. It's almost ten o'clock. _Bewitched_ will be on in a few minutes."

"Not a cartoon kid, huh?" asked Pentan, as he poured his juice.

Tristan shrugged. "Sometimes. Just depends what it is."

Pentan was especially hungry and finished his bowl before Tristan was halfway through his. With a gesture, he asked if he could get more. Tristan nodded and he stood. He seemed satisfied by the time Tristan was drinking the dregs of milk from the bottom of his own bowl. They rinsed their dishes and left them them in the kitchen sink. They returned to the living room to finish watch the show.

By this time, Darrin, the husband on the show, was once again being foiled by Endora, the conniving mother of Samantha, the beautiful witch who just wanted to be a loving wife to her husband. Tristan walked over to where Martin was ensconced in his recliner, climbed over one of the arms, and made himself comfortable in the man's lap. Pentan looked about the living room. The only other furniture for sitting was the couch and Dana was stretched out on it like Cleopatra.

Dana saw his dilemma and smiled. She held out her arms invitingly. "Come on over her, Pentan."

"Really?"

"If you don't mind it."

Pentan thought for only the briefest of seconds before smiling himself. He went to her. He aligned his body alongside hers, leaving room for her arms to criss cross around his chest. She pulled him closer as he placed his head against her chest, still grinning. They watched the rest of the show like this. A new show, _Lidsville_ , came on after that. They watched it just for the novelty of it. Next was _Curiosity Shop_ , an hour-long children's educational program, but Pentan didn't remember it. He had dozed off. Dana just smiled and allowed herself to doze, as well.

"Dana," said Martin sharply.

Both Dana and Pentan awoke with a start. They glanced at Martin before realizing both he and Tristan had their eyes glued to the television set. They turned their gaze to it. A well-primped reporter was rapidly reading off a recap of local news. His expression spoke to the fact this was not a story he wanted to be giving.

"For those of you of just joining us, I repeat that the body of thirteen-year old Jarrod Rockwell was discovered in a ditch around six o'clock this morning at the corner of North Citrus Avenue and Cleveland Street. He had multiple stab wounds as well other injuries. For the sake of decency, we will not be showing photographs. Jarrod's parents report that he had been missing since about ten o'clock last night.

"Clearwater police are openly speculating but say they are not yet ready to commit to the theory that this killing may be the latest in a string of murders of at least sixteen young boys across several Florida counties, including Pinellas County, over the last three years. They recommend parents exercise caution and sense when allowing their children out after dark. Now we return to our regularly scheduled…."

"Turn it off, Tristan," said Martin.

Tristan hopped off his father's lap and complied. As if on auto-pilot, the family stood and went to the door. Each adult had a hand on a child's shoulder as they walked. They went outside and walked to the end of Mercury Avenue. It was not a long walk, only six houses. They turned to the right and looked down Cleveland Street.

"The second intersection is Citrus Avenue," Tristan said for Pentan's benefit.

"That close?" Pentan whispered and shuddered. Dana pulled him closer. Pentan clenched his fist and grit his teeth in frustration.

 _She thinks I'm shaking because I'm scared because a child died. Well, that's true, too. But it's worse. I know who did it. I know his name. I know what he is. And I might not be able to do anything about it without putting everyone I love in this town in danger._


	10. Somewhere Beyond the Sea

"It's far beyond the stars

It's near beyond the moon

I know beyond a doubt

My heart will lead me there soon"

"Beyond the Sea" - Albert Lasry / Charles Trenet / Jack Lawrence

25 April 2004

Clearwater, Florida

Tristan could hear the organ and the choir from the main church building from where he stood in the secondary building. He didn't know the particular piece, though, since it was contemporary. He tried to hum along as best he could anyway as he paced back and forth. The distraction actually helped him think.

 _I need a trainer. I'm forty-four years old now and I haven't had anyone teach me anything about how to survive as an Immortal since Penance. Even he claimed he didn't teach me much._

 _What about this David Ashton guy?_

 _But he's in England._

 _So?_

 _How would you get there? Aren't there options in this country?_

 _There might be, but I don't know who they are. I could get to England many ways. Plane? Boat? Teleporter?_

 _All of those - well, maybe not the last one - need papers, adults, MONEY. You don't have any of those._

 _Yeah, what about that? The big one is the money. I could make a lot of things happen if I had money._

 _You're a hacker now, for God's...oops...for goodness sake. You can get money._

 _But even if I had the money and can get the papers and the transportation, how do I find this Ashton guy? He really does seem like he'd be the best choice to train me or to help me find the person who could._

 _Well, you do have Jack. He's a Watcher. He has information on all Immortals, doesn't he?_

 _Yeah, but how much can he bend the rules for me? If he starts asking around about where other Immortals are and not just keeping tabs on me, people are going to wonder why._

 _Yeah, that's a good point._

 _Hacker skills again?_

 _I doubt it. Just because Jack knows that little bit about what Ashton does in England nowadays doesn't mean he knows what name he's using or where he lives. I guess I could ask, though. Mental note. Ting._

 _So, after the money, what papers do I need?_

 _Well, a passport, obviously. And if I don't have people posing as my parents with matching surnames on their passports then I'm going to need adoption or guardianship paperwork. Otherwise, it's probably going to get really sticky going across international borders._

 _Ugh. This is getting ugly._

Tristan found a world map on the wall of one of the rooms. There were pins and labels of all of locations where the church had relief or missionary efforts. Tristan didn't pay attention to those. His eyes focused on the island of England.

 _I need to get to you, Merry Olde England. How can I do it?_

xxxxxxxxxx

Nancy came in with Jack in tow around 14:00 Both of them were carrying takeout trays and drinks from a restaurant. "I'm so sorry for taking so long. Some of the members insisted I go to lunch with them."

"No problem," replied Tristan, standing from his borrowed cot in the one empty room in the secondary building. "I kept myself busy. I had a lot of thinking to do."

"Well," Nancy continued. "I had to do some fibbing. I told the members I was bringings some meals back for some friends, which I guess is true, but didn't say who."

"Where did you go?" inquired Tristan.

"Lenny's."

Tristan brightened. "I remember Lenny's. They were awesome."

"I made them both large meals since I didn't know who would choose which one."

"I can pay," Tristan offered.

"Same here," said Jack.

"Pfft," retorted Nancy. "It's one meal. Just don't make a habit of it."

Tristan waggled a finger. "But you bought the extras for breakfast yesterday, too. "We're starting to cut into your wallet. Let us help."

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, Nancy grinned. "Oh, alright."

Tristan reached into his pack, shuffled around, and pulled out a wallet. He opened it and extracted a twenty dollar bill. He took the two trays that were in Nancy's hand and replaced them with the bill. "I'll take this meal. Thank you very much for getting it. And no change. I insist."

"Well, thank you, then," said Nancy, handing him the soda. "That should be the spinach omelette and the tall stack of pancakes. That's six, by the way."

Jack shrugged. "I guess this is mine, then."

They sat on the floor and the two diners opened their trays. Jack also pulled out his wallet and handed Nancy a twenty. "No change for me, either, thanks." Looking down, he added, "My word, what is this beast?"

"That would be The Lenny. It's two half-pound patties with bacon, cheese, and fried onions, served with french fries." Nancy regarded the two twenties in her hands. "Looks like I may have to keep you fellas here longer. I'm making money off of you now." Her eyes twinkled as they chuckled.

"Hey, Tristan," said Jack. "You may have to eat some of this thing. There is no way I'm going to be able to finish it all myself."

"No problem. Would you like some of this, too?"

"Yeah, I'd like to try it. It does look awfully good."

Tristan passed the omelette tray over to Jack and took a bite of the pancakes while he waited. He then traded them. Jack cut off a piece of his burger with his plastic fork, which took some work, and handed it and a few fries to Tristan with his fingers. Tristan happily accepted them. Nancy watched unsure whether to be aghast or amused. Seeing her expression, Jack grinned and explained.

"Nancy, in the infantry, we do far worse than this when it comes to food. This is being polite."

Nancy looked back and forth between the two faces. Tristan just nodded. She pointed at Tristan. "You were infantry, too."

The boy grinned and shook his head, chewing. Jack laughed.

"He learned fieldcraft from people who live even harder lives than infantrymen: special forces."

Letting out a tiny belch, Tristan added, "Jack and I were eating a snake a few nights ago."

Nancy looked in horror at Jack. The Watcher just grinned, said, "It was pretty good, actually," and took a bite of his burger. "Not as good as this burger, though."

Nancy looked like she was about to swoon. "Oh, my. I'm in a room with two barbarians. God help me."

True to Jack's prediction, there was still over a third of The Lenny remaining before the Watcher handed the burger across the Tristan.

"Have at it, kid," he said, putting a fist to his mouth as he belched. "Excuse me." Those last two words were purely for Nancy's benefit. "And thanks again for thinking about us."

Nancy waved a hand dismissively. "It was no trouble at all." She looked at Tristan who was still munching happily away at his pancakes although there was little left of them. "I'm just amazed how a little body such as yours can handle so much food."

Jack scoffed good naturedly as he brought up a knee and rested an arm atop it. "You didn't have to follow him across half of Florida on foot, either. He can burn through the calories as quickly as he can put them down. There was a theory at the Academy, too, that Immortal metabolism, due to their perpetual healing, is higher than ours. He actually needs more calories and nutrients than a "normal" boy would." Jack used air quotes when he said "normal." I asked how many "more than normal" meant during that class and after a lot of "hmms" and "uhhs," finally got the instructor to say five thousand a day for a typical Immortal and as high as ten thousand for a physically active one."

"Ten thousand?" repeated Nancy in disbelief. "That's like an Olympic athlete. They'd have to be eating almost constantly."

Jack nodded. "I said that, too. The instructor said a lot of Immortals who have needs to that degree tend to live in the Western hemisphere where larger meals are more culturally accepted and also tend to hide their need to nutrients and calories by snacks, nutrition drinks, or even alcohol."

"What does Ashton do?" ask Tristan. "Is he one of those?"

Jack laughed. "I did some research on him. He would need quite a bit on a daily basis, probably ten to twelve thousand. He does two, sometimes three Iron Man competitions a year. His daily routine is brutal. He gets up at four in the morning every day except Saturday and works out until six. His aides are there with him, giving him his morning briefing. He then eats a substantial breakfast and plays with his kids. Did I mention he has two adopted children? They're seven and eight years old. He is at work by eight o'clock. He goes for a ten to fifteen kilometer run around eleven which usually takes him about thirty-six to fifty minutes depending on the distance and then showers and has lunch. Sometimes he'll switch up and do a bike ride for two or three times the distance. He works at the PMC until four or five and then goes home. He spends an hour or two with the kids, works out with martial arts for another two hours, and then does work with his other companies until ten or eleven. He then has a cigar, a glass of scotch, and goes to bed at midnight."

"Wow!" was all Tristan could say, leaning back against his cot.

"What's a PMC?" asked Nancy.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Private Military Corporation. It's like a group of legal mercenaries. They do things the military either is too ill-equipped to do, like executive security, or, in some cases, not allowed to do, like direct action."

"That means things like assassinations and raids in noncombatant countries," clarified Tristan.

"Yes," said Jack.

"Oh, dear," said Nancy.

"Yes," continued Jack. "If something happens to them, they're just rogue actors. It's not the fault of any particular country. Ashton's guys, NextGen Corporation, have some kind of strange agreement worked out with British government. Often times, they operate while wearing British army uniforms. This means, of course, they can't do a lot of the sort of black operations we just inferred, but it does give them another sort of benefit."

"What's that?" asked Nancy?

"If they're captured, they can claim to be legal combatants under the laws of war. One of the requirements is belligerents must be dressed in clearly identifiable uniforms with badges of rank in order to be treated as prisoners of war. Ashton's men often are dressed in this way. Not always, depending on the mission, but often. They're an interesting organization."

Tristan leaned forward with interest. "Your Watcher database had all of that on Ashton and his company?"

"It had a lot more than that. I spent a lot of last night and this morning just reading through the database. It turns out the Watchers have as much or maybe even more information than the intelligence agencies of some first world countries. It was mesmerising."

"And you won't get in trouble for reading about him or other Immortals?"

"No, not at all. There are thousands of Immortals in the world. We're actually encouraged to learn as much as possible about as many Immortals as possible so we can recognize them in the field and report on them if we see them. We can't do that if we don't do our research. Anyone who queries my activity in the database will just assume I'm being the typical new Watcher and reading about some of the more interesting Immortals first. The most anyone might say is I should focus on Immortals who are known to be in my part of the world before "playing" around in the database. Even then, since Ashton is known to travel all over the world, and even has several business interests in Florida, I could still claim I had reason to be reading his record. Worst case, I could say I was just interested because of the class we had on the Watcher-Immortal war."

"Wait," interjected Nancy. "The what?" Jack gave her a quick summary of the war. Nancy leaned back on the wall, wide-eyed. "I never knew."

"No one should. Any news reports of anything that happened back then would probably have described the battles as terrorist attacks or gang activity. Certainly not sword-wielding Immortals taking heads."

"Where does Ashton live now?" asked Tristan.

"Part of his agreement when he founded NextGen Corporation was to have his corporate headquarters and his home co-located with the SAS - that's the Special Air Service, the British Special Forces - headquarters in Hereford, England. He lives there. It's about two hundred thirty kilometers west of London."

"Well, then, that's where I need to go," said Tristan definitively.

Both Nancy and Jack stared at him in silence. Tristan just regarded with equal silence, taking a bite of his massive burger and chewing slowly.

"England?" uttered Jack finally.

Tristan swallowed his food. "Yeah, Jack. I said nearly a week ago I might want to do this. I wasn't sure, though."

"Yeah, you did, but I thought it was just idle pondering at the time. I didn't think you'd actually decide to do it."

"Well, I have. I think this Ashton guy and what he could teach me is the best hope I have to stay alive. I need to get to England. The real question now is not whether I am going. It's how do I get there? I've been thinking about it all morning and there are a lot of parts to it. The biggest one, obviously, is money, and I haven't figured that one out yet, but I will. The harder part is all the damn, uh, sorry, Nancy, all the paperwork that goes with it; the passport, the guardianship papers, visa, all of that stuff. How do I get that? And where do I get adults to accompany me on the trip? There's no way I can't go alone. So, you see, I've thought of a lot of the questions, I just need to think a bit longer and come up with the solutions."

With that, Tristan slumped back against his cot and stared blankly at the wall, his food temporarily forgotten. The others did the same for a time. After an uncomfortable minute, Nancy sat up, electrified. Curious eyes turned her way.

"I might have an answer to the accompaniment question, at least, but it would require telling two people about your situation. Not everything, of course, just that you need someone to go with you."

"I kind of knew it would," replied Tristan.

"When I was at lunch with my congregants, two of them, Travis and Donna Needham, mentioned they were going on a cruise next week. I didn't really pay much attention to it at the time, but they are leaving Tampa next Sunday and arriving somewhere in southern England two weeks later. That will at least get you in the country."

"Yeah, that would help," admitted Tristan, "but next week. That's not a lot of time to get the paperwork I'd need."

"Hold on, though," said Jack, holding up a hand. "It's possible to expedite a passport. Maybe we can find a way to do the same with the other things, too. How soon before you could meet with these people?"

"I could call them now and maybe get them to meet me in my office in a few hours."

Jack looked over at Tristan questioningly. "What do you think?"

Tristan blinked once and sighed. "It's worth trying, at least." Turning his eyes to Nancy, he added, "Please call them."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack sat in his hotel room tapping away on his laptop. He was amazed how much the internet had progressed since he had left high school. Back then, it had barely been more than a means for email and instant messaging between people. Actual research had been cumbersome and aggravating. Of course, many people were still on America Online or some other pay-by-the hour service, as well. Now, things were zooming along at far greater speeds and information was much easier to find.

The information he wanted, for example, he had within seconds. Yes, he could get an expedited passport in only a few days. It would be outrageously expensive, but it could be done. He was pretty sure he could justify it with the higher ups, as well, as a necessary cost of tracking his Immortal if he followed up with a report of Tristan's travel plans. Now, the other things the boy might need were going to be harder, he was sure.

Jack wasn't sure what kind of software the Watcher organization might have on his laptop to track his internet activity. He hoped there was none. Since his hotel did not have a business center with computers he could use, he did not have much of a choice but to use this one anyway. His next search was for the documentation requirements for a minor to enter Great Britain. That turned out to be relatively light in nature, no visa if the child was coming into the country for education or tourism for less than six months and was accompanied by at least one parent or guardian. The parent or guardian had to have documentation from the other parent granting permission for the trip.

Jack thought for a moment. Tristan obviously wouldn't have parental consent for this trip. His brow furrowed. _What about something a little shadier. What if the adults with him were his_ adopted _parents instead?_ Jack's mind then spun in a spiderweb of directions. There were all manner of things which could go wrong with that idea. _What if British customs tried to verify the adoption order, or Tristan's date of birth, or even the name that Tristan was using, with the American government? Oh, man, this just got nasty._

Jack closed his laptop and stood, pacing back and forth in his room, chewing on a knuckle. _Break the problem down into its individual parts. Don't focus on the whole. It's mission analysis, just like in the Army._ He made several more circuits of the room.

His mind blanked. Then it flashed and his pace slowed. He stopped pacing. His knuckle fell from his mouth. Slowly, a grin spread across his lips. He took two steps to his chair, tore a sheet from the notepad on the table, and seized the hotel-monogrammed pen. He began scribbling furiously, pouring his thoughts onto the page. It was quickly filled. He tore off another page and continued.

He was halfway through the third page when he finally dropped the pen and sat back, examining his work. He placed all three pages side by side. He scanned each one, looking for anything he might have missed. He nodded. It was all there. Perhaps Nancy or Tristan could add to it, but it was an excellent start. He glanced at his watch. 1625. He gathered the note pages, folded them in half and put them in his jeans pocket. Walking to the bed, he sat while dialing Saint Matthias's number.

Jack's foot tapped impatiently as the first ring tone sounded in his ear. "Saint Matthias Lutheran Church," he heard over the line.

"Hello, Nancy, it's Jack. I have some information for you. I'll be there in twenty minutes. I just wanted to let you know."

He listened briefly.

"Yes, I'm fine with that. I'll be there soon. Goodbye."

Setting the phone down, Jack flexed his shoulders. _No taxi for this one, Jack, old boy. They keep records. You're hoofing this one. It's only two kilometers, though. That's nothing. Let's get moving._

xxxxxxxxxx

The only thing Nancy really knew about Travis Needham was he tended to be a very punctual man. They had arranged to meet at four o'clock and his car pulled into the parking lot three minutes before that time. Travis and Donna both emerged from the vehicle and approached toward the church slightly slower than they normally did on Sunday mornings. _I guess that's normal,_ thought Nancy. _They're wondering what I'm about to ask them._ Nancy stepped through the church entrance to greet them.

"Travis, Donna, thank you for coming here on such short notice." Nancy had changed into more casual attire and was glad to see the Needhams had done so, as well. It would make things easier if everyone were more comfortable.

"We're glad to help any way we can, Nancy," answered Travis, taking her hand. "What's this about?"

"Let's go to my office and sit down first, can we?" she asked, shaking Donna's hand, also.

"Sure, sure," replied Travis.

Nancy led to way down the hall until they reached the offered and then allowed the couple to enter first. She then followed them and stood near her desk. She had a pitcher of water and several glasses nearby.

"Would you like some water?"

"Yes, please," said Donna.

"None for me, thanks, replied Travis.

Nancy poured the water for Donna, handed to her, poured a glass for herself, and then sat behind her desk. Taking a sip first, she eyed the two. "I have to be honest with you two. I don't really know much about you other than what I heard you talk about at lunch this afternoon. I do have something I'd like to ask of you but I'd like to start by just asking about you. What do you do first of all?"

Donna grinned. "Oh, my. How much time do we have. If you let Travis start talking about his job, we could be here all night."

Travis smirked and nudged his wife's knee with his own. "I'm not that bad, am I?"

Donna took a sip of her water and replied, still grinning, "Sometimes. I'll go first and then you can take the rest of the evening. Okay?"

Travis made a show of rolling his eyes, nudged his wife's knee again, and said, "Okay," while pretending to pout. Nancy chuckled at this.

"Well, I'm the senior accountant at KefTech Industries in Tampa. We both work at KefTech, actually. Travis will tell you all about what they do in a moment. I track all the financial activity for the corporation's operations in the United States and report them to corporate headquarters. That's it in a nutshell."

Nancy leaned forward, elbows on her desk and fingers interlocked under her chin. "So KefTech is an international corporation?"

Donna turned to Travis. "You're on."

Travis sat up in his seat. From his expression, there might as well have been a spotlight on him. "Oh, yes, KefTech is one of the leading information technology manufacturing companies in the world. It has operations on every continent except Antarctica, and it's even looking at how it can benefit from expanding to there, as well."

"Here we go," announced Donna, with another grin and sip of water.

Travis smirked and continued. "KefTech is currently a powerhouse in Europe and Asia, but its influence is rapidly expanding in both North and South America. In the next ten years, it will rival the other IT giants and be a household name."

"And what is your part in this company?" asked Nancy.

"I am one of the Assistant International Operations Managers in the corporation. Donna and I both have an interesting arrangement in that the nature of our work does not chain us to an office. Sure we sometimes have to be somewhere for a meeting, but we can pretty much be anywhere. We primarily work from home.

"That's the reason we're able to take this two week cruise, actually. It fits with both of our corporate plans, as well. There's a major corporate meeting in London on the twentieth of May. We can take this cruise, keep up with our work while having a bit of fun along the way, go to our meeting, and then fly back home. It's beautiful."

Nancy smiled. "And deductible."

Travis smirked. "Well, some of it anyway. Not all of it. The rest is vacation expense, playtime."

"Those are impressive positions for people so young."

Travis grinned while Donna blushed. "Yes, I'm thirty-five and Donna is a year younger. The philosophy at KefTech is talent trumps age. If you're better than someone who is senior to you then you get promoted over that person anyway. Age doesn't matter. The president of the company is very firm on encouraging keeping the best people rather than having someone simple ride a desk for forty years."

Nancy's expression turned serious. "That cruise, and more importantly, its destination, is why I asked you to come here tonight. Before I go any further, I have to ask for your confidentiality. Nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, we discuss here can go beyond the walls of this office, not even to other members of the church. Can I have your guarantee on that?"

Travis and Donna stared at her for a moment. They then looked at each other. Finally, they nodded. Turning back to face their pastor, Travis said, "Yes, Nancy, we can guarantee it."

"Good." She took another sip of water. "What I'm about to say is complicated and is going to be difficult to believe. There is a lot I can't even tell you. You'll just have to take it on faith, if you can." She took a deep breath.

"I am wondering if you would be willing to take another person with you on your cruise."

There was a long pause.

"What kind of person?" asked Donna.

"A twelve-year old boy. He needs to get to England quickly. There are people there who can take care of him."

"What about his parents?" This came from Travis.

"They are not in the picture anymore. Haven't been for a very long time."

Donna queried, "And he has no guardian, no one who can accompany him?"

"No one."

"What about these people in England?" asked Travis. "Can't they help get him there?"

"No, there is nothing they can do until he is there."

"But," Travis continued, "it's not as easy as just buying another ticket on the boat for him. He'll need a passport, guardianship papers, visas, all manner of documentation, or he'll never clear customs. Hell, sorry, I got excited, anyway, he might not even be able to get onto the cruise ship without the right documents."

"I'm working on that, too, Travis. What I need to know from the two of you is whether you would be willing to let him travel with you."

"Well, I don't know. It's a lot to consider," said Donna.

"Would you like to meet him?" asked Nancy? "He's in the other building right now."

The phone rang. Donna and Travis looked at each other inquiringly as Nancy answered it.

"Saint Matthias Lutheran Church."

A pause.

"Yes. I'm meeting with some people at the moment. They may still be here when you arrive."

Another pause.

"Goodbye."

She hung up.

Nancy leaned back in her chair and looked back at the Needhams.

"So, what do you say I go get our little man and bring him over to meet you?"

xxxxxxxxxx

Donna gasped when Tristan entered the office ten minutes later. Both of the Needhams stood and regarded the tiny boy.

"Oh, you poor little thing," said Donna. "You look like you're straight out of Oliver Twist."

Tristan had prepared for this moment with a little bit of theatrical flair by wearing his dirtiest set of clothing and messing up his hair somewhat. It was nothing too dramatic, he hoped, just enough. He couldn't resist a bit of charm, though.

With a small grin, he looked up at Donna and asked, "John Davies or Mark Lester version, ma'am?"

Tristan was relieved that everyone in the room got the reference, or at least acted like they did, since they all laughed. Donna replied, "Oh, Mark Lester, definitely. He was the cuter of the two anyway. And he had a better voice. Nancy, you didn't tell me he was a little Romeo, too."

Nancy smiled. "Some things are best experienced rather than said."

"So you need to get to England, do you, son?" asked Travis.

"Yes, sir." Tristan looked into Travis's eyes. "I'm Tristan, by the way. It's nice to meet you." He took a step forward and extended his hand.

Travis was clearly surprised. He took the boy's hand and shook. "Wow. Good grip for such a little guy. I'm impressed." He looked at Nancy. "He and Martin would get along, I think." Looking back at Tristan, he asked, "What is in England that's so important to you?"

"There are people, one particular person, there who can help me if I can just get there. The hard part is getting there, sir. I'm all alone."

Beside Tristan, upon hearing "I'm all alone," Donna could be heard to gasp softly again. Travis looked at Tristan with soft but serious eyes. "And you know this person can, no, not just can, but will help you? And there is no one in the U.S. who can?"

"I've looked in the U.S., sir. I've found no one. I know this man can help me. I know he will help me. I know this because he has already helped a boy just like me. I just need to get to him."

"And you know where this man is?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where?"

"Herefordshire, sir."

"We're just going to Southampton on our cruise and then to London."

Tristan stood up straight and as tall as he could. "Sir, if you can get me to England, I can get to Herefordshire myself. That won't be a problem."

"Wow!" said Donna. "Travis, we should get him to present at some of our conferences. With that kind of confidence in his voice, he could sell anything."

Travis put a hand to his chin and studied the boy in front of him. He smiled. "I think you're right, Donna. I think you're right." He extended his hand to Tristan. "Kid, you have yourself a ticket on a cruise ship to England. Congratulations."

Tristan grinned toothily and shook. "Thank you, sir."

"And call me Travis."

"Yes, sir. Travis."

"And I'm Donna."

"It's so wonderful to meet you, Donna."

Jack appeared at the office door. Seeing all the smiles, he remarked, "I see I arrived at a good time?"

"Yes," said Nancy. "Tristan just got himself a trip to England."

Jack pumped his fist. "Yes." Stepping into the office, he said, "Now we can move on to the other stuff."

"Who's this?" asked Travis.

"This is Jack," answered Nancy. "He's going to help Tristan with the documentation requirements. We hope."

Jack shook hands all around and produced his notes. Travis asked another question. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"I don't know. What do you do?"

"We work at KefTech International."

"KefTech? The IT manufacturing company?" There was a slight upturn of his lips.

"Yes, exactly," responded Travis. "You're well informed. So what do you do, Jack?"

"I'm a historian," Jack said simply, kneeling by Nancy's desk, spreading out his notes. Tristan moved around to get a better look. "And, yes, there may be something you can do. Let me think about it. Nancy has your number, right?"

"Yes."

"Good."

A knock on the office door interrupted them. A new voice said, "Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, Nancy. I saw your car and, since you're not normally here at this hour, I wondered if you might need any help."

Nancy looked up from her desk. Her face went ashen. "Oh, hi, Martin."

Everyone had frozen in place. All faces turned to take in the newcomer. There in the doorway, his fingers still curled and at ear level from knocking on the open door, stood Martin Dahl.

"Sorry to be such a busybody," continued Martin. "Like I said you're usually not here this late on a Sunday, so I was just wondering if…" It was Martin's turn to freeze as his eyes fell on Tristan. He blinked once, twice. "I'm sorry for staring, young man," he said to Tristan. "It's just that you bear an amazing resemblance to my son when he was your age."

Tristan hesitated to speak for moment, then said, "It's okay, sir. I under…" Upon seeing the recognition of his voice in Martin's eyes, he turned to Jack and whispered, "There's no getting around this now, is there?"

Jack shook his head. "No," he whispered back.

Tristan turned to face his father fully. " _Hei, pappa."_ (Hi, daddy.)

 __Martin stepped back, stunned. He put a hand to his chest and went pale. He took a deep breath before speaking again. " _Er det virkelig deg, Tristan?"_ (Is that really you, Tristan?)

" _Ja, det er meg, pappa."_ (Yes, it's me, daddy.)

 __" _Jeg forstår ikke. Hvordan?"_ (I don't understand. How?)

 __" _Jeg skal forklare senere. Er momma her?"_ (I'll explain later. Is mommy here?)

 __" _Ja, hun er i bilen."_ (Yes, she's in the car.)

 __" _Hun burde se meg og kanskje alle av oss skulle gå til huset og snakke."_ (She should see me and then maybe all of us should go to the house and talk.)

 __" _Jeg skal hente henne."_ (I will get her.) Martin took another breath, finally dropped his hand from his chest, and turned to leave.

Travis looked down at Tristan. "For those of us who don't speak, whatever that was, what just happened?"

"Norwegian," said Tristan, "and it's a long story that you're not going to believe right away. I'll explain it when we get to their house." He looked at Jack. "I'll need your help, I think." Jack nodded. "And yours, Nancy." She nodded, as well.

"Let me call my husband and tell him I'll be a bit later than I thought."

Dana Dahl came into the office, thirty years older but, like her husband, completely recognizable. Her hair was still even the same color as Tristan's with only the slightest hint of grey. Like Martin, at first she just stopped and stared at the boy in front of her.

"Hi, momma," Tristan said in English, mostly for the benefit of everyone else in the room.

"Tristan?" she said in disbelief.

"Yes, momma."

"Is it really my little boy?"

"Yes, momma"

"But it's been thirty years and you haven't grown."

"It's a long story, momma."

Dana sniffed and continued to study him. "But we saw the police photographs. We saw what that man did to you. You died. How can you be here now?"

Travis and Donna stared as well now.

"Like I said, it's a long story, momma. If we can go back home, I'll explain everything." He took a tentative step toward her, his eyes misty. "Can I give you a hug?"

She knelt down and reached out to him. Her own eyes were welling up, as well. "Of course, you can, my dear."

Tristan ran into her arms and accepted her crushing embrace. Everyone could see his tiny body quiver with silent sobs. When he stepped back from her, tears were flowing freely from his eyes. "I've wanted to do that for so long," he admitted.

He looked over at Martin. "Daddy?" Martin waved him over to him. Tristan ran to him and Martin picked him up just like he had thirty year before, tears in his own eyes. Tristan wrapped his arms around his father's neck and held him close. Martin lightly rubbed his son's back and squeezed his legs tightly. Tristan, closed eyes still dripping with tears, sighed happily.

Unwillingly, he sat back in his father's arms, looking into the man's eyes, and giggling lightly. "I've missed you, Daddy," he admitted, rubbing the back of his father's head with his fingertips.

"We've missed you, darling boy," said Martin.

Tristan swiveled slightly to face the others in the office. "Sorry, guys. It's time everyone knew what is really going on. Would everyone please get your things and get in your cars. Let's follow," he paused and looked at his dad, "Mr. Dahl to his house and I will explain everything." He looked specifically at the Needhams. "Travis, Donna, after I tell you the truth, if you decide you don't want to go through with our agreement, I will understand."

Tristan patted his father's shoulder. "Dad, just let me grab my backpack and I'll ride with you and Mom, if that's okay."


	11. Help Me Stand

"Time can bring you down

Time can bend your knees  
Time can break your heart

Have you begging please, begging please"

"Tears in Heaven" - Eric Patrick Clapton / Will Raynings

25 April 2004

Clearwater, Florida

"This calls for a celebration," decreed Martin Dahl. Everyone was gathered around the dining table. Martin was at one end and Tristan at the other. They had to bring a chair from the home office for Nancy to have a place to sit. "Drinks for everyone. Liquor or wine? No exceptions except for religious reasons." He looked at Jack. "Are you Muslim? Mormom?"

"Neither, sir. Catholic."

"So bourbon is fine for you, then?

Jack grinned. "I used to be infantry, sir. I'll drink whatever you put in front of me."

"Bravo!"

"From what I've seen already, Martin," said Travis. "I think bourbon would be fine with me, too. Neat, please."

"Hah! That's the only way I serve it."

"Wine for me, please," said Donna.

"Same here," from Nancy.

"Bourbon, please. A double." This came from Tristan. Everyone except Jack and Nancy looked at him questioningly. He spread out his arms and said, "Hey, I've actually been alive for forty-four years. You're about to hear a crazy story to go with that statement. I've just met my parents after thirty years. Don't you think that deserves a drink?"

Travis threw up his hands. "Why not? This whole thing has already taken a turn into the surreal."

Martin and Dana went into the kitchen to prepare the drinks.

"Just wait," warned Jack. "It's about to go all Twilight Zone on you."

"You mean it hasn't yet?"

Jack thought for a moment and then replied. "No, so far, this is just an episode of Star Trek." He clarified, "The original series."

"So what is your part in all this, Jack?" asked Travis. "You seem to know a lot about this." After a moment, he added, "For a historian."

Jack smirked. "Let's say I'm Tristan's personal historian. It's my job to know everything about him."

"I'm not sure how to take that," commented Donna.

"Don't worry, Donna," assured Tristan. "It's not as creepy as it sounds. Well, maybe it is, but that's not the point of it all. It will make more sense after we explain things."

The Dahls returned with the drinks and placed them in front of their owners. Martin went back to the kitchen and brought the bottles with him. "For refills," he said, placing them on the table.

"Good," said Tristan. "Now we can get started." He motioned for the bourbon bottle, a fifth of Jack Daniels. Jack handed it to him. Tristan picked up his glass, sniffed it, and then drank the entire contents in one gulp. The expressions on the Dahls' and Needham's faces made their shock evident. The effects of the brown liquid on the small boy were almost immediate.

"Ooh, it's been a long time since I did that, but I needed it. Oh, I'm already a little dizzy." He spun the cap on the bottle and refilled his glass. Carefully, replacing the cap, he handed the bottle back to Jack. "Thank you."

Tristan placed both hands on the table and slowly stood. He looked into the eyes of each person at the table individually. For a moment, they focused on Jack. Fairly certain no one in the room spoke German other than the two of them, he asked, " _Jack, würdest du bitte ein Messer und Papiertücher für mich besorgen?_ (Jack, would you please get a knife and paper towels for me?) Without a word, Jack stood and made his way into the kitchen.

Tristan faced the remainder of the group. "Everyone, my name is Tristan Garrett Dahl. As far as the world knows, I died on the twentieth of July of 1972 on a pier just down the street here in Clearwater. Everyone thinks a child murderer who was active at the time killed me. There are even photographs taken by the police that support that argument. Mom and Dad have seen them." Tristan scanned his audience. Jack returned with a roll of paper towels and a paring knife then went back to his seat. "Since you're looking at me now, obviously none of it is true. I actually died six days before that, on the fourteenth. I am immortal."

"Immortal?" scoffed Travis.

"Yes," said Tristan simply as he pulled off several towels and folded them into a square.

"Impossible."

"Then how do explain the fact that I'm here now, Travis?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out."

"Well, you shook my hand at the church so you know I'm real enough, right?" Tristan peeled off two more towels and folded them into a smaller square.

"Yes."

Setting down the towel, Tristan continued. "Immortals start out just like normal people, growing, aging, getting hurt, until something kills them the first time. Right, Jack?"

"That's correct."

"I'm going to out Jack a bit, if that's okay."

"Fine," said Jack.

"He's not a historian. He's a Watcher. His job is to observe and record the lives of Immortals." Everyone looked at Jack.

"But that's not the point," emphasized Tristan. "As I said, Immortals are just like normal people until they experience their first death. I died on June fourteenth, 1972 when playing with my friend, Pentan. Remember him, Mom and Dad?"

The Dahls nodded.

"Pentan Helmsley actually went by another name, Penance Cameron. He was also an Immortal. After I died, he was there waiting to explain things to me."

"Things like what?" asked Martin.

"Like this," said Tristan, drawing the paring knife across his palm. Everyone at the table, again except Jack and Nancy, gasped heavily. Penance turned his hand toward the group so they could see how deeply he had carved into himself. He held his hand over the larger of the two paper towel squares so the blood dropped on it.

"Doesn't that hurt?" inquired Dana.

"Immensely," admitted Tristan.

"Then why do it?"

"Watch."

Before everyone's eyes, after a moment, as Tristan wiped away the blood, tiny electrical bolts could be seen jumping across the wound like little stitches. With each jump, the cut got smaller. Within seconds, it was completely gone. There was no trace there have ever been a cut on the hand at all.

Tristan lowered his hand and wiped away the last remnants of blood. He looked at his audience again. "When new Immortals recover from their first death, they stop aging and their healing rate goes into overdrive. Little things like hangnails don't even happen to me. I can get a cold and be over it in a few hours instead of several days. I could even get something awful and fatal, like Ebola and, even if it kills me, come back from it in an hour to two."

"So there is no way you can ever die?" queried Donna.

Tristan averted his eyes. "There is one way."

"How?" she asked.

He looked back at her and gulped. Jack stepped in for him. "Decapitation." There was another collective gasp from the Needhams and Dahls.

Martin leaned forward in his chair. "You said you died six days before they found you at the marina. How did that happen?"

"I'll tell you. I'm actually going to tell you several stories. They might seem disjointed, at first, but I think they'll make sense when I'm finished. Some of them involved Penance, but since we still knew him as Pentan at the time, that's what I'm going to call him. The first one takes place a few weeks after Jarrod Rockwell was killed." At the blank expressions from the Needhams, Jack, and Nancy, Tristan explained. "Jarrod was a boy who was stabbed to death by a child murderer back in September 1971. I didn't know it at the time, but that killer's name was Matthias Bauer. I didn't learn this story until later, but we'll get to that."

xxxxxxxxxx

16 October 1971

Clearwater, Florida

Bauer watched the boy exit Kaulitz's store with his handful of candy and grinned to himself. He was perfect; maybe ten or eleven, fit, blond hair this time. He couldn't tell the boy's eye color, but that didn't really matter. He would do nicely for this outing. He followed the boy stealthily down the street, keeping to the shadows along the wall.

As he walked, he thought about the "games" he and the boy would play. First, there would be the initial struggle as he took the boy from the street. That resistance was always enjoyable. Then there would be the pleading following by crying. Bauer could feel his loins stirring just at the notion. Next would be cutting away the child's clothing and the boy's realization that worse things were to follow. Then the double penetration, with the 12.7-centimeter (5 inch) knife at his back and…otherwise. That would be the best part. The boy's final gulps of air during these moments would be pure bliss. The climactic fury of stabbings to the boy's face and body afterward were just added ecstasy. Bauer's lips split into a fanatical grin as he contemplated this.

Bauer felt a tingling along his spine and, at first, attributed to his expectation of the upcoming kill. As it grew, however, he realized what it truly was. There was another Immortal nearby. He spun to his right, crouching, searching the shadows, and did not see the small form rise up to his left above him on a fire escape. His crouched form made for the perfect target for the shadow above. The shadow jumped and swung wildly with its left hand.

The half brick in Pentan's hand connected with the man's head, but he had moved at the last moment and Pentan achieved only a glancing blow. The force of Pentan's body hitting Bauer's back put the man on the ground. Pentan dropped the brick and reached for his knife. Aiming for the kidney, it deep into Bauer's back . Bauer roared in pain. He tried to roll away and kick out at his attacker. Luck just happened to be on his side when his left leg connected.

Pentan was flung off his feet and hit his head against the metal railing of the fire escape. Somehow, he held onto his knife. Recovering his wits, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sock with a heavy stone inside. Using it like a kosh, he smacked it as hard as he could against Bauer's jaw. The crack of breaking bone and shattered teeth echoed around the alley.

The gash where the brick had connected bled heavily, completely covering one eye. Half of Bauer's teeth were missing and his jaw was so broken that it looked like pebbledash under his skin. Pentan took another swing with his makeshift kosh, but missed when Bauer managed to shift back at the last moment. Pentan lunged forward with his dagger, scoring a deep slice to Bauer's arm. Pentan crouched and sprang forward, intending to bury his blade in the other man's chest.

Bauer still had some fight left in him, though. He lunged with his left arm and grabbed at the boy. Bauer yanked him forward with all his remaining strength, clearing his exit as Pentan went tumbling. Pentan's head hit the wall, opening a cut on his scalp. Blood poured down his face. He saw stars and groaned. Pentan stood dizzily; his fingers flexed around the Celtic dagger in an underhand grip. He took one step forward and wobbled a little. As he fought for balance, Bauer gagged, choking on his own blood from his shattered teeth, and reached under his shirt behind his back. He withdrew a sizeable knife. He slowly rose to one knee and faced Pentan. The small Immortal charged regardless. Bauer slashed horizontally at him as he approached. The blade carved a deep gash into the boy's chest and upper right arm.

Pentan screeched, more in rage than pain, and lashed out at Bauer's right arm as it swung back. His little blade impaled itself just behind Bauer's wrist, cutting into the tendon and cracking the bone inside. Bauer's blade slipped from numb fingers. Pentan's attack did not stop the forward momentum of the arm, however. Instead, he caught the full brunt of it - and his own hand bearing the sgian dubh - directly across his nose and mouth, the force of it toppling him.

Pentan scrambled to his feet, spitting blood from his split lip and wiping tears from his eyes. His nose was broken and blood was seeping from his nostrils. Dark bruises were already forming around his eyes. He still had a weak grip on his sgian dubh. Scowling through blood-stained teeth, he hissed, "I'm so fucking tired of dealing with you, Bauer."

Bauer continued to wheeze and struggle for breath. His eyes still flashed in anger. "'K'off," was the only response he could weakly manage before collapsing back to his hands and knees in a choking fit.

Pentan approached again. Bauer raised himself up, lifting an arm to ward off an attack. Pentan pushed the arm aside, slammed his fist into the hollow of Bauer's throat, producing even more gagging, and then stepped back once, and repeatedly stabbed into Bauer's right armpit, seeking to puncture the axillary artery. By the amount of blood shooting from the wound onto the shins of his jeans and his shoes, he believed he was successful at that. Bauer's involuntarily screams of pain only resulted in greater choking.

Bauer swiveled at the hips, the palm of his left hand slamming into Pentan's chest. Despite his injuries, there was still enough of a size and strength difference to send Pentan stumbling backward several meters before he finally fell on his rump. By this point, Bauer had staggered to his feet and started to lurch haggardly toward a better lighted area.

Pentan looked around quickly. Pedestrians were approaching the same area as Bauer and would see him in seconds. In fact, they might have noticed the fight a few moments later. Pentan looked down at himself, taking in his lacerated shirt and his blood-drenched jeans and shoes.

"Shite. I've missed you again," he seethed. He turned and faded into the shadows himself. He would make his way home on foot. He would retrieve his hidden bicycle later. Behind him, he heard a woman scream as she saw Bauer's grievously wounded body wheezing and reeling down the street like a Romero zombie.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 April 2004

Clearwater, Florida

"Matthias Bauer left Clearwater the morning after he fought with Penance, uh, Pentan," added Jack, tapping some keys on the laptop he had decided would be a useful item during this discussion. He swivelled it around to show the timeline to the others at the table. "He was never really a "stand and fight" kind of guy, if he had a choice, even if it was a child Immortal." He looked over at Martin and Dana. "You might remember that there were no more attacks on children until the night Tristan was found at the pier."

The Dahls glanced at each other, pondering this for moment, and then nodded. "Yes, that sounds right," said Martin.

"So what happened next, Tristan?" asked Dana.

Tristan sipped from his bourbon glass. He looked his mother and father in the eyes. "Like I said, I didn't know the last story yet. All I knew was Pentan didn't want to come over to visit the next day. He said he wasn't feeling well. He later told me he was just angry at himself and was sulking.

"Before I tell the next story, I really want to say how much Pentan loved this family. After we left Clearwater, he always talked about the fond memories he had of here, both with Mr. and Mrs. Zumwalt and with us, but mainly with us. He said he never felt more loved than with our family and he thanked us for that. Remember the birthday party we threw for him at the Columbia Restaurant in Tampa?"

Martin and Dana both smiled at that. "Yes," said Martin. "He said it was the closest to authentic Spanish food he had ever tasted in the States."

Dana reached out and took her husband's hand. "And then when we got back to the house and brought out the cake and presents. The look on his face was priceless. I've never seen a boy so surprised, so unexpecting of gifts and affection."

"Yes," said Martin. "He teared up right there where Tristan is sitting in front of Macie, Phillip and all of us."

The Needhams gawked at this. Donna's eyes welled up. "You mean that boy," she queried, "who got into that awful fight Tristan told us about and had lived for how long by then?" She looked at Tristan.

Tristan cocked his head to the side like a puppy, thinking. "Three hundred seventy-two years."

"Oh, my. He had been alive that long and he'd didn't expect a birthday party?"

"He didn't really care for them," said Tristan. "We had to keep it all a secret. We just told him we were going out to eat, but not that we'd have the party afterward. He was so surprised because we, who were not his foster family, went to all that effort to find out his birthday and throw a party for him. He even got up out of this chair and gave us all a hug after the cake came out. The candles were halfway burned down before he had a chance to blow them out. He looked so damn happy once he had done that." Tristan blushed. He looked at his parents. "Sorry, momma."

"It's okay, dear. This is an emotional time."

Tristan continued. "He really liked the gifts, too, even they weren't kid gifts. Maybe that's why. Daddy gave him a wristwatch. Momma gave him a sewing kit with different needles, several threads, and buttons. Mr. Zumwalt gave him one hundred dollars and Mrs. Zumwalt gave him a book on Scottish history. He kept them all when we left town."

"You didn't tell them what you gave him," said Dana. "He liked that the most."

Tristan beamed. "I gave him a tartan-colored backpack. He was so happy he hugged me again. He even said, "Thank you, Tristan. I'll carry this until it falls apart." The last time I saw him, he still had it."

"When was that?" asked Martin.

"1983, in Richmond, Virginia." Tristan's eyes fell to the table. "He died a little while after that. I'm not sure how much longer, but soon. Maybe a few months or a year. I overheard it from some Watchers."

"He was...decapitated, you mean," said Donna.

"Yes," whispered Tristan.

"By whom?" asked Travis. Jack sat silently.

"Does it matter? He's gone now."

"No. I guess not. I'm sorry." Travis looked at his hands, his shame evident.

Tristan gulped the remainder of his bourbon and took a deep breath. He motioned for the bottle again and refilled the glass. "Anyway, the next story is several months later. In fact, it's after school is over and in the summer. It's the fourteenth of July and Pentan has come over to spend the night."

xxxxxxxxxx

14 July 1971

Clearwater, Florida

"You sure are hyper tonight," said Pentan. "Is it all the soda you drank? Do you want to play another game of Go?"

"Maybe later," answered Tristan. "Right now, I just want to move around. I'm tired of being cooped up in this room. How about we ride our bikes for a while, maybe down to the beach?"

"This late? It's almost eleven o'clock."

"It's summertime. Time doesn't really matter anymore, right."

Pentan shrugged. "I guess not. Sure. Let's ride."

Tristan's energy held out during the bike ride, as well. It was practically a race. His laughter could be heard over Pentan's occasional calls of "Wait up" and they made the usual twenty-eight minute trip in only twenty-three. When they arrived and dropped their bikes, the moonlight reflected off the sheen of sweat on their faces. Tristan's faces was aglow.

"Isn't this great?"

Pentan grinned. "I've said it before. Your happiness is contagious. I don't know what's go into you tonight, but you've surpassed yourself for your usual "happy boy" status."

"I don't know, either. I'm just feeling good and I want to enjoy it while I can. Let's swim."

"Without our trunks?"

"We're wearing shorts. That's good enough, right?"

"I guess so."

In seconds, there was a pile of shoes, socks, and shirts on the sand. Two boys ran into the water, laughing as they went. They were both strong swimmers, although Tristan was clearly the better of the two, and they stopped to tread water eight hundred meters from shore. Tristan waited for his friend to catch his breath.

"Do you see those palms where we dropped our bikes?" he asked.

"Damn, you have good eyes. Not really."

"There are two of them side by side. Once you're ready, I'll race you from here to those trees and the first one to the top wins."

Pentan grinned. "You've got me on the swimming part, but I think I can best you on the running and climbing. You're on."

"Cool. Let me know when you're ready. You say when to go."

"Okay."

They continued to tread water for a few more minutes. Pentan focused his eyes on the tiny dot far away on shore.

"Okay," he announced. "I think I'm ready."

"Just say the word."

"Mark. Set. GO."

Both boys erupted into a furious freestyle, clawing at the water as quickly as they could. Every now and then, a chuckle slipped from one or the other of them amid their gasping for breath. Tristan finished the swim in seven minutes and staggered to his feet, stomping through the shallow water until he reached the dry sand. He took off with earnest then. Pentan was right behind him.

As predicted, Tristan's initial lead was slowly being eaten away once he was on land. Pentan was an excellent runner. He was ten meters ahead of Tristan when he reached the trees. Tristan, however, did not let up. He stepped onto a stone in front of his targeted tree and leaped onto its trunk, his arms and legs digging for purchase. He began moving upward, like Pentan, with slow but significant progress. His breathing was quite labored by this point and each pull of his arms and push of his feet took considerable effort. The grin on his face was unabashed, however.

Tristan reached up with both arms, maintaining pressure them and even more with his legs. He pulled, releasing his hold with his feet. He felt the shaking in his arms begin and clamped his legs back onto the tree. Looking up, he gauged how much farther he had to go. Not too far. He looked over at Pentan a few meters away. He was slightly lower. Tristan could rest a moment. He breathed in and out, holding the tree tightly.

When his arms felt better, Tristan sighed with relief and reached up again. He shifted his feet and pushed with them, pulling with his arms. It was his legs that betrayed him this time. His feet slipped down the trunk. He tried to grab it again, but his nose slammed into forcefully. His head rebounded back and he lost his grip. In the slowest moment he could recall in his short life, Tristan saw everything, the moon almost in its first quarter above him, the stars twinkling, Pentan in the tree next to him, the spot where he had just been in his own tree, even the hotels hundreds of meters beyond. He could even hear his own scream as he fell. He did not feel his head impacting the stone he had used as a jumping point or hear the hideous crunching-crushing sound of his own skull and vertebrae as he landed.

Pentan, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. He heard all of it. At first, he was unsure, not believing it could be true.

"Tristan?" he called.

When there was no answer, his voice grew more desperate. "Tristan!" he shouted louder. Then he looked down. "Oh, shite. Please, God, no." He held his feet to the side of the tree and let himself slide down its trunk, not caring about the abrasions the outward-thrusting bark would cause to his own body. He winced as he slid. The pain was horrific, but it would pass. He had to get to his friend.

When he hit the ground, he staggered the few meters to where Tristan lay. The angle of the boy's head was all he need to see to tell him the truth. Pentan fell to his knees next to Tristan.

"God, no," he pleaded. Tears already welling in his eyes, he slowly reached for his friend's body, reverently rearranging him into a more dignified position and gently closed his eyes. Then, still kneeling in the sand, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the sand and let the tears flow. His hands clenched into fists and he slammed them furiously by his temples.

"Why?" he screamed. He leaned back, his eyes open now and glaring at the unanswering sky. "Why have you done this? Again! What did he do to deserve this. Damn you."

Slowly, almost penitently, he returned to his head on the ground position. "Please forgive me," he whispered. "You're supposed to punish me. Anything you do to me is fine. Just not people like Tristan. He's pure. He's decent. He's nothing but love and happiness." Pentan's tears continued to fall. "He deserves better than this. Why couldn't you have waited until he grew up? How is he supposed to survive in this horrible world?"

There was the slightest of rumblings in Pentan's mind. He sat up, hugging his knees to his chin. "Is that little voice in my head supposed to be an answer or are you mocking me? Which is it, God?"

There was no other answer. "So I have to figure that out myself. Is that right?" More silence. "Alright. I get it. "You're worse than Galabeg."

Pentan sat quietly and waited. It wouldn't be much longer.

Ten minutes later, Pentan felt an electric current along his spine just before Tristan's lungs expanded mightily and his eyes burst open. With a loud groan, Tristan slowly put a palm to his forehead. "Oh, my head hurts."

"It's always like that when you come back. It's even worse the very first time."

Tristan twisted his neck to look behind him. Sluggishly, he pushed himself up to his elbows and then sat up. "Come back from what?" he slurred.

"From the dead."

Tristan's reaction would have been more animated had Pentan given him another minute or two before dropping the revelation. Instead, he turned his head slowly and simply said, "What?"

"You were dead, Tristan. Look at that tree. You just fell thirty meters and crushed your skull and broke your neck on that rock. I've been sitting here for fifteen minutes or so waiting for you to recover."

"Dead? Recover? What are you talking about? If I had died, I wouldn't have recovered from it."

Tristan stood and walked to his bike. "You would if you were immortal."

"Immortal?"

"That's right."

"No one's immortal."

"You are."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I am, too." Tristan came back carrying his sgian dubh.

"Stop messing with me, Pentan. I just had a nasty fall and got knocked out. Obviously, I'm okay."

"Hold out your arm."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Tristan extended his left arm hesitantly. In a flash, Pentan's blade lashed out and cut across his wrist.

"Ow!" screamed Tristan.

"Don't worry. It will heal," assured Pentan as he cut a similar wound into his own wrist. "Just like this one. Watch."

Tristan watched amazed as both cuts disappeared in seconds. He rubbed at the blood on his own wrist, looking for any trace. He then grabbed Pentan's hand and did the same.

"You won't find anything. It's gone."

"But that's impossible. People don't heal that quickly."

"Immortals do."

Tristan was contemplative for several moments. His gaze shifted to the stars. Finally, he looked at Pentan. "Are all Immortals children?"

"No. We're born to normal parents and most of us grow up before we have our first death. That's when we stop aging."

"Stop aging? So I'm never going to grow up?"

Pentan's eyes fell to the sand. "No."

"So you've been, whatever age you are, for many years?"

"Yes. I was born in Zaragoza, Spain in 1599. I died in 1611 when I was twelve years old. I've been physically this age ever since."

"Is that a good or bad thing?"

It has its ups and downs. There were a lot of downs. This last year with you and your family was one of the few ups I've had it my life. For that, I am eternally grateful. I'm just sorry this curse had to fall on you now. I was hoping you would get to grow up first."

"How long have you known?"

"Remember the first time I came over for dinner and we were wrestling on the floor in your room and then I suddenly went to the bathroom saying it was a muscle spasm? I actually touched your skin as we played and I knew then. Some Immortals can tell just by being near you but I have to touch you. I'm different, I guess. Anyway, the reason I went to the bathroom was to cry."

Tristan was downcast. "I'm sorry I made you sad."

Pentan grinned. "You're always so pure. It wasn't your fault. I was blaming God while I was waiting for you to recover. I think he even answered me, but I don't know what it means.

"You know what they tell you in Sunday school about "the small voice" of God that you're supposed to hear when you pray?"

"Yeah," answered Tristan.

"Do you ever hear it?"

"Sometimes, I think, it's like ideas that just appear in your head that you never would have thought of yourself."

"Yeah, just like that. Well, that happened. It was just four words that popped into my mind. I have no idea what it means."

"What was it?"

"The remnant of Caphtor."

"Remnant of Caphtor? What in the world?"

"See? I don't have a clue. The weirdest thing is I heard the same thing in my head for the first time ten years ago and I ignored it. Tonight was the second time. Now, I think, for your sake, it shouldn't be ignored anymore."

"But we don't know what it means, Pentan."

"One thing we have as Immortals, Tristan, is time. And I've had many names in my life, but the one I prefer is actually Penance. Penance Cameron." He grinned. "Do your name analysis on that one. Someday I'll even tell you what my real name was, maybe. For now, let's get back to your house. We have to discuss some other stuff."

xxxxxxxxxx

25 April 2004

Clearwater, Florida

"And then we rode back home. We sat on the back deck and drank Cokes and Pentan - he wanted me to keep calling him that as long as we were in Clearwater - explained the rest of what being an Immortal meant. The good and the bad. He also told me the worst part."

"What was that?" asked Nancy?

"He told me I had to leave my parents." Tristan slumped back into his chair for the first time since they had arrived that evening. "He said eventually you would notice me heal from a cut or a broken arm or that I wasn't growing and start to wonder what was going on. I wouldn't be able to explain it. Even worse, people would start coming for me, trying to take my head and it would put you in danger. He said the only way to keep you safe was to leave."

"What did you do?" This was from Travis.

"I broke down. I walked to the far end of the yard, sat down in the grass, and just sobbed. Pentan came over, sat next to me, put his arm around me, and just let me do it."

"He was a good friend," said Martin.

"Yes, he was," verified Tristan. "When I couldn't cry anymore, he helped me stand, kept his arm around me, walked me into my room, and we got into bed together. He put my head on his shoulder and held me until I fell asleep.

"When I woke up the next morning, I tried to put on a happy face for Mom and Dad. I asked if we could go to Lenny's for breakfast and they said yes."

Dana laughed. "I remember that day. I never saw you eat so much as you did that morning. You were absolutely ravenous. So was Pentan. I thought I was going to see two little boys explode in that restaurant. Somehow, that didn't happen."

"You two did put on a happy face, though," added Martin. "We didn't suspect a thing. We just saw two laughing, smiling - and very hungry - boys."

"In fact," said Dana, smiling, "you two ate so much that you were crashing on the way back and you boys went back to your room and took a nap when we got home."

The smile spread to everyone at the table, even Tristan.

"Yeah, we overdid it, but it was a fun morning. Well, when we woke up, Pentan and I talked some more. I had settled down a bit so he could talk a little more rationally to me. He even talked about the meal and how we never could have eaten that much as normal boys. Anyway, by now, we started talking about plans.

"I couldn't just walk away. I had to have a plan. Pentan helped me form one. We needed food, clothes, a place to go, a route, a way to get there, all sorts of things. Pentan had done this before. I hadn't. He said I had to leave all but maybe one or two things that no one would notice missing here. Things like my Go boards or any of my books were out. I kept the wallet and pocket knife that my parents gave me for my birthday. I didn't even take any of my clothes. Pentan got some for me at a thrift store down the street."

"So what did you do to prepare?" asked Travis.

"I talked with Pentan, gathered the little bits of money I had stashed here and there around my room, and waited for him to tell me where to meet him. I knew we were going to Orlando on some bikes he was going to buy second hand, but I didn't know when we were going."

"Where did he get the money for this?" inquired Dana.

"He had saved some of his allowance and I gave him some of my own money. He said between the two of us, it was enough."

"And then?" Travis again.

"Then, on the twentieth of July, he tapped on my window and said to meet me at a particular pier in a neighborhood near the marina in three hours. He had everything prepared."

"What happened then?" asked Donna.

"He came out of his room around six thirty," said Dana, as if reciting a tale for the thousandth time, "wearing red shorts and a blue shirt. He kind of looked like he was in a bit of a daze. He walked slowly around the house like he was seeing everything for the first time, such was his amazement, it seemed. He went to Martin, who was in his recliner, gave him a hug and a kiss and told him that he loved him. Martin, of course, returned it all. I remember Tristan's smile when he heard those words.

"Then he came to me and wrapped his arms around me. "I love you, Momma," he said, and naturally, I said, "I love you, dear boy." He gave me a kiss and told me he was going for a walk and would be back in an hour or two. He has done this on occasion so it was not unusual. I told him to be careful and to be back before eleven o'clock. He said he would."

Dana's voice dropped, tears unashamedly streaming down her face. "That was the last time I saw him. Until the photos after midnight. And until tonight."

Travis turned his gaze to the boy at the end of the table. "What happened after you walked out that door, Tristan?"

xxxxxxxxxx

20 July 1972

Clearwater, Florida

The soft rippling of the ocean water was a comforting sound as Tristan searched for his destination. The boy looked around cautiously. There were people not too far away. He kept to the shadows to avoid being seen. He didn't see Pentan anywhere. He crouched in the grass and waited.

He did not have to wait long. The electric tingle he had come to associate with Pentan's presence soon walked along his spine and rang in his head. He peered about and finally spotted his friend, despite his dark clothing which made him only a shadow, slowly approaching from the opposite direction.

"I didn't think you'd want to meet me by a house," whispered Tristan, once he was close enough.

"This is best for what I have planned," assured Pentan, readjusting the small bag over his shoulder.

"What is that plan?"

"I'll show you in a minute. Come out here on the pier."

"Won't we be spotted?" Tristan gazed up at the sky. "We've got more than a first quarter moon up there."

"Not unless we make noise and bring attention to ourselves. Come on."

They trotted out to the pier and crouched down again, side by side. Pentan looked back at the house. There was a great deal of activity and noise from within.

"Sounds like there's a party going on in there." Tristan saw him grin. "Good."

"Why is that good?"

"You'll see."

The back door to the house opened. Several college-age boys and girls, all clutching beer bottles, emerged from within. Pentan reached into his bag and stepped in front of Tristan. His face was mournful.

"I'm sorry. This is part of the plan. It will make sense later."

Tristan never saw the knife until it was already deep in his abdomen. He was too shocked to scream the first time. He looked down in horror and saw the blade as it was withdrawn. He saw his on blood reflecting blackly in the moonlight. Then he screamed. The knife came again. And again. Each time the boy screamed in pain and terror as it tore into him. He tried to knock it away, but Pentan only blocked his feeble attempts with his empty hand.

Tristan grew weaker with each successive thrust, his internal organs savaged. Finally, with a choking gasp, he coughed. A wad of blood erupted from his mouth. He quivered and collapsed onto the pier. His body twitched in its death rattle.

Pentan was already moving. He did not have much time. The people on the back deck were already moving. He tucked the long knife back in his bag, stepped over Tristan's still shaking body, and grabbed him by the shoulders. He dragged him over to the edge of the pier, dropping his head and shoulders over the lip. He glanced up at the college students. Only seconds left now. Falling to his hands and knees, he threw his legs over the pier and lowered himself down. He had just released his hands when he heard the first scream from one of the coeds.

 _Good. That should cover any sound I might have made in the water._

Pentan clung to the pier's column with both arms and climbed. In seconds, he was an arm's length from Tristan's limp body. Holding onto the column with his legs and one arm, he reached into his bag again. This time, he pulled out a smaller blade, not much larger than a steak knife. Reaching up with care, he inserted it into Tristan's back. If he remembered his anatomy correctly, he should be hitting the heart from this angle. He removed the knife with equal gentleness, placed the blade between his teeth, and wrapped his arm around the column to rest. He began to count. In five minutes, he would to it again.

In this manner, Pentan learned the ways of Clearwater police crime scene investigation procedure. The first uniformed police officer arrived fifteen minutes after the coed had begun to scream her lungs out. He had then called for additional units. Within half an hour, the pier was covered with people snapping photos and peering around looking for clues. To Pentan's amazement, no one had looked down where he clung yet. All the while, he continued his five-minute sticks into Tristan's body.

It took two hours for the police to finally decide they had gathered all the evidence they could from the pier and begin to thin out. Even though he knew his wait was not yet over, Pentan allowed himself a single sigh of relief. His limbs were on fire by now.

Twenty minutes later, Pentan heard the words he knew meant he had to make his next move soon. "This is Unit 26. We need a medical team to clear the body from 136 Bayside Drive."

Pentan extended a fatigued hand up to the lip of the pier, got a firm grip, placed the other beside it, and cautiously pulled himself up until he was at eye level. The officer who had made the radio request was at the far end of the pier, perhaps fifteen meters aways. Pentan lowered himself and shifted his hands down the pier. When he was alongside Tristan's body, he wrapped one arm under the boy's armpits and released the pier, seizing his own arm at the same time. He dangled precipitously for a moment. He swung his legs, adding greater force to his own body weight. Freefall. Tristan's body dropped off the pier into the water.

As soon as they hit the water, Pentan grabbed his friend's body and swum down and away from the pier. He knew exactly where he had to go. He had practiced this swim for the last three nights and he only had sixty meters to go. The only difficulty was dragging a corpse along with him. Still, he pressed onward, his legs and now his lungs burning.

The air when he broke water never tasted so sweet. They were on the marina houses of Brightwater Drive across from Bayside. Pentan pulled the still limp body of his friend onto the grass and collapsed next to him to wait. He looked at his side. The knife bag still hung there. He unslung it and hurled it back into the water.

Beside him, Tristan's lungs filled with life again. The boy's eyes snapped opened and found Pentan instantly. Groaning, Tristan, sat up. Surveying his blood-drenched clothing, he looked at his friend. When he spoke, his voice gave away his utter infuriation. "What was that all about?"

"That," said Pentan, pointing at the other pier, "was how you leave Clearwater without giving your parents a lifetime of wondering what happened to their little boy."

"So they'll think I'm dead instead? How is that better?"

"It's called closure, Tristan. Instead of thinking their darling boy doesn't love them anymore and ran away, he went for a walk one night and a child murderer found him instead. It's horrible, heartbreaking, at first, but they will recover, and they will move on. It's so much better than if you disappeared. If you vanished, there is always the hope you will come back one day. This way, they know there isn't. Please trust me, this is better."

Tristan didn't respond. He just pulled his knees to his chin and silently wept. The logical part of his brain must have still been active because he did not cry for long, only a minute or so.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"First, you need to change clothes. I've got another outfit for you in a bag behind those bushes over there." Pentan pointed to a house. "Put your bloody clothes in the bag and we'll get rid of them. I've also got two bikes stashed there. We need to get back to our houses fast. You're going to sleep in a sleeping bag under your deck tonight. I've got some insect repellant under there, too, so you won't have to worry about bugs. There's some food and water so you won't get too hungry or thirsty.

"You'll stay hidden there until tomorrow night. At that time, I'm going to leave a note for my foster parents saying I'm too scared to stay in a town where my best friend has been murdered and I'm running away. I'll then meet you and we'll ride these bikes I got from the thrift stores to Orlando, just like we planned. Okay?"

Tristan stood on wobbly legs and nodded. "Okay."

xxxxxxxxxx

25 April 2004

Clearwater, Florida

"That's what happened," said Tristan, sipping from his bourbon glass again. "I got changed, we ditched the clothes, and came back here. I hid under the deck and tried to sleep, but I could hear Momma crying so I cried, too. Pentan got into bed and acted surprised when he was told I was dead the next morning. He then pretended to sulk all day. The next night, we rode all the way to Orlando. We didn't think anyone would look for us there."

Jack let out a breath. "That knife attack was not something I expected from Penance - Pentan. I was taken aback when I read that in your file."

Tristan cocked his head to the side again. "I remember seeing you looking a little surprised on the bus. I wonder if that's why."

Jack smirked. "You were watching me on the bus?"

"I was watching everybody, but you were one of the more interesting people because you looked like a soldier in new civilian clothes rather than a shabby Greyhound rider." The boy grinned. "Or a cute coed."

"Coed?" asked Dana.

"Ha!" laughed Jack. "Tristan has quite a way with gullible college girls. Would you like to hear the whole story?"

"Is it relevant to why we're here?" inquired Travis.

"Not really, but it is funny," admitted Jack.

"Let's save it for another time, then."

"Okay."

"So what happened after that, Tristan?"

"Like you said, Travis, it's not really relevant. We wandered north, living on the streets for a few years, and then split up. We never did figure out what "the remnant of Caphtor" meant. That was one of Penance's regrets. He wanted to be able to train me better, to help me survive as an Immortal. He said that again when we last met in Richmond. Neither of us had figured it out by then, either."

"So that's about all you have to tell us, then?" asked Donna.

"Yep, that's about it," finished Tristan, draining his glass again.

"Then I'd like to add something," interjected Nancy. She looked at the Dahls. "Do you have a Bible handy?"

"Yes, one moment," said Martin, standing. "I'll be right back." He walked toward his bedroom.

"What are you thinking?" asked Jack.

"There's a reference in scripture about Caphtor. I just want to find it."

Jack brow furrowed. "Now you're thinking something," said Nancy.

"Maybe," said Jack, typing on his laptop.

Martin returned with a well-worn Bible in his hands. "Here you go, Nancy."

"Thank you, Martin." She began flipping through its pages. "Here, Genesis 10, verses 6 through 13, where it talks about the descendents of the sons of Ham, one of the sons of Noah. I'll skip down to the part that matters. "6: The sons of Ham: Cush, Egypt, Put and Canaan. … 13: Egypt was the father of the Ludites, Anamites, Lehabites, Naphtuhites, 14: Pathrusites, Kasluhites (from whom the Philistines came) and Caphtorites." Nancy shut the book and rested her hands atop it.

"The problem here, I think, is the descendents of the Caphtorites are referred to later as the Philistines and the "remnant of Caphtor" - the Philistines - were all destroyed later on. They were one of the civilizations which God judged to be utterly destroyed by the sword and not a stone left standing. With that being said, how can "the remnant of Caphtor" be something that can help Tristan now?"

"Maybe it can?" said Jack, clearing his throat. "The Philistines were known as a seafaring people, not only a military force at the time, correct."

Nancy thought for a moment. "That's right. They did have considerable commerce by sea."

Jack glanced at his laptop screen. "The Egyptian word for Caphtor was Kephtiu." Travis sat up straighter at this. "A thousand years before the Philistine civilization arose, the Egyptians traded with a major seafaring nation off of the island of Crete we now call the Minoans. The ancient term for that island was Caphtor. It's very likely the survivors of Minoa established the Philistine civilization after earthquakes and volcanic activity destroyed their island."

Nancy's eyes widened. "I never connected that name with the Philistines."

Jack raised his hand. "David Ashton, whose original name was Rusa, is Minoan. What if he is the remnant of Caphtor?"

Silence reigned around the table. Eyes from everyone seated around it darted from Jack to the closed Bible and back. Tristan sighed and leaned forward, his fingers interlocked in front of him.

"Thank you, Lord. You led us down the right path. The answer was right there the whole time." He looked at everyone at the table. "Now what do we do?"

"But why?" demanded Travis. "Who is David Ashton and why is he so important?"

"Ashton," answered Jack, "is a four-thousand year old Immortal who can teach Tristan everything he needs to know about how to stay alive. He's done it before for other child Immortals. I probably shouldn't say this part, but I'm sure you already figured it out. He's also the CEO of KefTech, among other companies around the world. He'll be at that meeting of yours next month."

Travis and Donna sat back, both breathless. "You mean, Bryson Stepanek," Donna finally uttered, "the Chairman and CEO of KefTech International, is this David Ashton person and is a four-thousand year old Immortal?"

"Four thousand thirty-five, at the moment," clarified Jack, "though he'll only look like he's in his late twenties or early thirties or so. Don't go calling him Mr. Ashton, or anything like that, by mistake, by the way. He wouldn't care for that. In fact, I may have already jeopardized your continued careers at KefTech just by telling you this much. You two may end up having to join the Watchers just like I did when I was in the Army and learned this much." He looked at Nancy. "I should have warned you of that, also, Nancy."

The pastor waved the caution away. "I'm not worried about that. If I end up having to add that to my calling, so be it."

Jack's eyes turned to the Dahls. They nodded. He looked at the Needhams. After a moment of silent contemplation, they, too, nodded. "Alright," he said," I'll notify headquarters and have them contact you soon." He reached out to shake everyone's hand. "I can't administer the oath myself, but I can say, "Welcome to the Watchers." It is certainly a unique experience."

"Besides getting drugged in a park and eating snakes?" chirped Tristan, a mischievous grin on his face.

Jack laughed. "Yes, besides that."

The Needhams questioning expression made him laugh again. "Another story for another time." He straightened. "Now, how to we get this boy to England?"

"Well," began Travis. "Before you arrived at the church, Donna and I had already agreed to buy him a ticket for our cruise. I suppose the next big question is documentation."

"Yes," said Jack, fumbling for his jeans pocket. "I have some thoughts about that. Tristan, come over here, please." He spread his notes on the table beside his laptop.

"Okay," Jack announced for the group. "Here is what I had in mind. Tristan here, has developed quite the skills as a hacker of the last two years. Those are going to come in handy over the next, what, week?" Travis nodded. "Week, as we try go get everything in place. We need to make all sorts of documents appear out of nowhere and seem like they have always existed. And, when I say we, I mean primarily, you." He clapped Tristan on the back. "You're the one with the skills to make it happen.

Jack looked up at Travis. "He'll need a clean computer from which to work. Nothing that can be traced to anyone. Can you get that from KefTech?"

Jack nodded. "No problem. I could have that to you tomorrow afternoon. Laptop or desktop?"

Tristan thought briefly. "Laptop." He rattled off some specifications for the computer and some peripherals. "Can you do that?"

"Baby stuff."

"Nancy," continued Jack. "You have a son who is also twelve. May we borrow his birth certificate so Tristan can copy the format?"

"Yes. I'll bring it in the morning."

"Okay. Tristan is going to create a birth certificate, social security card, birth announcement in the Clearwater Gazette archives server, the same for two fictitious parents, as well as social security work history and death announcement articles and death certificates. He can even go another generation back, if we want, to cover all bases, just in case we're worried about bureaucrats being extra curious. He's going to create a ward of the state order and then a foster agreement and then an adoption order for Travis and Donna. When you get on the boat with him, he will be your son.

"We don't need to worry about a name change order. We can say it's still too soon or he chose to keep his original name. The rush will be we need a passport for him with whatever name he chooses to use. It's going to cost a lot of money for the expedited passport, by the way. That's the other problem. Money. Where are we going to get the money for the things that can't just be magicked into existence and for him to use when he gets to England?"

"How much money are you talking about?" asked Martin.

"The expedited passport would cost about $500," said Jack."

Martin looked at his wife. She nodded. His gaze turned to Travis. He pointed at him. "And you, Travis. How much more will it cost you to add Tristan to your trip?"

"Uhm, about $3,500. We were taking the luxury cruise."

Martin didn't blink. "What about you, Jack? I presume you have to follow him, right?"

"Don't worry about me, sir. The Watchers will cover my travel expenses."

Martin just nodded and stood. "You all keep talking. I'm going to dig through some paperwork. I'll be back."

Tristan scanned Jack's notes, thinking. "I believe I can do all of this. It might take me a little while."

"How long is that?"

Tristan chewed a knuckle. Jack mentally grinned, remembering doing that himself only hours before. "Maybe two days, tops. It all depends on where I can hook up to an internet connection and how long it takes me to get through each server's security, really. The rest is grunt work. I can prep most of that in the evenings beforehand."

"So you can do a lot of this while waiting for Travis to get the computer for you and tomorrow night?"

"Oh, yeah. Even faster if I can get examples of what the court orders look like."

"Could you hook your laptop to the university's hardwire internet?" asked Dana.

"Sure," answered Tristan. "The things I asked Travis to provide would be able to screen me from identification by the university while still using their bandwidth. It would also be a lot faster and more secure than trying to using someone's wi-fi."

"Then you can use my office while I'm teaching classes. We'll just make a long day of it. How's that?"

"Perfect."

Martin came back to the table with a thick manilla folder. He sat down and opened it. Inside were several unopened envelopes held together by rubber bands. He pulled the top one off the sheaf, held it up to the light, and slowly tore the edge off one side.

"When Tristan was four years old," he explained, "I set up a whole life insurance policy on him. It was for $2,500 at the time. It was designed to slowly grow in value over time and was something I hoped to be able to give him when he was eighteen as an asset he could maintain since whole life premiums are locked in for life." Martin paused, blinking several times and taking a deep breath.

"When Tristan died, his policy paid out it's total asset value at the time, about $4,000. We didn't have the heart to spend it. It seemed like blood money. We let it sit in the bank for a week or two before finally putting it in a certificate of deposit in another bank. I told the asset manager to just keep rolling it over into another CD whenever the current one matured. Don't notify by mail. Don't call me. Just do it. He could send a statement, if he wanted, but I wasn't going to open it. I've just been putting them in folders for thirty years. This is the first time I've opened one.

"This whole time you folks have been talking, I've been wondering how we could help. When you mentioned money, Jack, I thought of this. Of course, certificates of deposit don't have a high rate of return, but maybe they can help Tristan get where he needs to be." Martin looked into his son's eyes. "This was your life insurance. If it can be used to do just that, insure you can stay alive, then we have done our job as parents."

Martin looked down at the pages in his hand. He blinked and handed them to Dana. "Oh, my," she said before giving them back.

"What is it, Dad?" asked Tristan, his eyes misty.

"Thirty-eight thousand three hundred twenty-six dollars fifty-four cents," Martin Dahl read slowly, his own voice displaying his disbelief.

"Oh, wow," exclaimed Donna. "Even after the taxman takes his chunk, you've done well."

Martin wiped his eyes. "Yes, and we can help our son."

"Well, let me be an accountant for a moment. Take ten thousand out for taxes. Maybe keep some to fix your roof in case someone like an auditor asks about why you cashed out the CD, and then let Tristan have the rest. How does that sound?"

"I'm fine with that. Dana?"

"That's reasonable to me."

"Alright. Travis, whatever extra cost you might incur for Tristan is on me, understand? No excuses." Travis nodded.

"Thank you very much."

"Now," said Martin, "how about we go celebrate a little more?" Looking at Tristan, he added, "The excuse is my nephew is in town and I want to spoil him. Nancy, bring the hubby and the kids. Everyone is invited. Coming along, Jack, you, too. I can't let my "intern" for the next week go hungry. You and Tristan both look like you could use a good meal anyway."


	12. Climb Aboard

Author's Note: The discussion Lisa has with the Needhams in the chapter is based on _The Physics of Quickenings_ by Parda. You can find this story at s/6345279/1/The-Physics-of-Quickenings.

Also, since I could think of no better one myself, the description of Galabeg was lifted, word for word, from _Highlander: Penance_ written by Knolltrey. As always, that story can be found here: s/9599821/1/Highlander-Penance.

The New Year's Eve party, though modified by me to fit this story, was originally written by my friend, Gillian Leeds who, as it happens, also created the character of Alyssa Cordeiro. Many thanks to her for her contribution to this work.

"I look to the sea reflections in the waves spark my memory  
Some happy some sad  
I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had  
We live happily forever so the story goes  
But somehow we missed out on that pot of gold  
But we'll try best that we can to carry on"

"Come Sail Away" - Styx

2 May 2004

Tampa, Florida

The computer work was done. The shopping was complete. The passports were in hand. Even the adoption orders physically existed. Everything had somehow worked out on time, but not without mishaps.

There had been unexpected issues. Cashing out the certificate of deposit had led to all sorts of administrative headaches, but Martin had been able to overcome them within a few hours. Such a sizeable deposit into his account, however, would pretty much guarantee an audit on his taxes next year. Jack had to pay extra for a last minute room on the cruise as well as contact the Watchers to secure his pistol and knife. There was no way they would make it through customs. Tristan had to leave his bayonet with the Dahls for the same reason. Both felt naked without their weaponry. The passports had cost more than expected due to the rush. Tristan had found the security at the Social Security Administration to be particularly challenging and had spent the better part of a day cracking into it without being detected.

Now, they stood at the docks as the massive Norwegian Gem loomed over them. Tristan had his arms around Dana, giving her a farewell hug. Beside him was a bag containing a few books, his money, and some new clothing, all just slightly too large with the expectation he would gain a little weight during the voyage or during his training. "Not the wrong kind of weight, I hope," he had said earlier in the week, stating he would seek out the fitness center and try to copy some of the other people there and get a start on some sort of training regimen. Dana had told him he should not do much more than eat, exercise, play, and sleep.

Tristan approached Martin and embraced him. "I'm going to miss you, Daddy."

"I'll miss you, too," patting his son on the head. "Let's do this right." He picked the small boy up much to the amusement of everyone around. "And Tristan?"

"Yes, daddy?"

"Have a nice trip. Send us a message when you get there."

Wrapping his arms around his father again, Tristan said, "Thank you so much, Daddy. I will. I love you."

"I love you. And eat something. You're practically a skeleton."

Everyone around in the group chuckled in agreement. Tristan grinned. "I will. I promise." Martin set the boy down and he immediately scampered back to his bag.

Travis and Donna walked over to the Dahls. "We couldn't have children of our own. Thank you for trusting us with your son," said Travis, extending his hand to Martin.

"We'll take good care of him," added Donna.

"I know you will," replied Martin with confidence, shaking Martin's hand. He turned to shake Donna's, as well. "Both of you. He's not a handful anyway."

"I can be, if you want me to," grinned Tristan. "If it would make you feel better."

"Let us get used to the thought of having of having a little boy first, please," begged Donna with her own good-natured smile.

As the Needhams talked with his parents, Tristan took the time to converse with Nancy and Jack. "This is for you, Nancy," he said, handing her two envelopes. "One is for you and one is for your church. They're for being so generous to Jack and me. Thank you so much."

"I'm not sure I should…"

"Please take it."

"Okay."

She had no sooner gripped the enveloped when he had embraced her. "Oh," she cried out in surprise.

"Thank you, Nancy. We couldn't have done any of this without you."

"You are so welcome. I am thrilled to have been able to help." She returned the hug with equal emotion. She glanced at the envelopes once he had released her. "Do I look at these now?"

"If you like."

"I'm always so curious."

"Said the Cheshire Cat."

"Look who's talking, you grinning boy, you." Tristan giggled.

Nancy opened one of the envelopes. Jack saw her jaw drop. "Oh, my goodness. How much is this?"

"One thousand dollars in each."

"Tristan, I…"

"Like I said, we couldn't have done this without you, Nancy. It's a small repayment. You deserve more for the help you've given us. Thank you."

Nancy closed the enveloped, closed her eyes, and bowed slightly at the waist. "Then I gladly accept it in the spirit in which it is given. Thank you, Tristan."

The boy's head swiveled to Jack. "Now it's your turn, Jack," he said with a mischievous grin.

"Uh, oh. Should I be worried?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Mostly, the thing is once we get on that boat we have to be strangers again, right? We don't know who else is going to be there so I have to be an Immortal and you have to a Watcher again. Correct?"

Jack looked up at the ship, his mind obviously working through the question at hand. "I guess you're right. Duty calls."

"So, while I still can, I want to say "thank you" to you, too. Just like Nancy, you helped me figure out what I needed to do, where I needed to go. There's still a long way to go, a lot to do, but we're starting off now. It's because of you. Thank you." Tristan leaped at him, wrapping his arms around the man.

"Oof!" said Jack, laughing. Before he realized it himself, he was hugging the boy, as well. "It was my pleasure, Tristan. Thank you for trusting me. And thank you for making my first official month on the job so interesting. I wonder what the second month will be like."

Tristan stepped back and smiled at him. "Yeah, so do I."

"It's time to go now, Tristan," said Travis from behind him.

"Okay." Picking up his back and slinging it over his shoulder, he said to Jack, "See you in England."

"See you, kid."

"Bye, Nancy."

"Bye bye, Tristan."

Turning back to his parents, Tristan waved. "Bye. I love you."

"Goodbye, Tristan. Enjoy England," called Dana.

"Send us a postcard," said Martin, with a sarcastic grin.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Oh, my goodness," exclaimed Tristan. "This is our room?"

"It sure is," said Donna. "It's called the family villa. You even have your own private bedroom, uhm, over here." She pointed to the right.

Tristan's jaw dropped. "My own room? I thought I'd get a couch or something." He dashed into the room and looked around. He laughed as he dropped his bag on the bed. "It's small, but so am I. It's great. It's even has its own bathroom. I never had that at home. This is going to be so cool."

Travis grinned. "Don't let that be a reason to stay in there the whole trip. There will be all kinds of things to do on the ship, of course."

"Oh, I won't," assured Tristan, stepping out of the room to explore further.

"A living room, a dining area. Wow! A private balcony." He pointed to the master bedroom. "Can I look in there?"

"Sure," said Travis.

The boy was moving almost before he finished saying the word. Donna giggled. She turned to her husband and looked up into his eyes. "Can you believe this? For two weeks, we have a little boy of our own? If he's full of this much spirit the whole time, he's going to be so much fun."

Travis let out a chuckle, still grinning himself. "Yeah, and will completely wear us out. We won't be able to keep up."

"Oh, pfft," she said, slapping his chest. "That's going to be part of the fun. Have you ever babysat? Chasing the kids around is part of the entertainment. So is watching their wide-eyed wonderment at everything."

"Except he's a forty-plus year old who only looks like a little boy."

"But he hasn't lost that childlike nature. Remember what Jack said on the way to dinner before we picked up Nancy's husband and her kids? Physically, he's still twelve years old. He's lived for forty years, yes, but he is still a little boy biologically and will still react like one. You saw him when he was in his own bedroom."

"This place is awesome!" they heard from inside the master bedroom.

Donna grinned. "And now. This is going to be great."

Travis took his wife's hand from his chest and kissed it. "Maybe you're right."

"Admit it. I alway am."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack looked about his own accommodations and nodded. _Certainly better than a Fort Benning barracks room, I'll give it that. And perhaps a perk to having called in for a ticket only a few days before departure, too._

When Jack had called, he'd had the choice of a small room in the bottom of the ship or what the operator had called a mini-suite with balcony. Jack had opted for the mini-suite. He was now glad he had. Overall, the room was small, but it had a queen-sized bed, a sofa, a dining area along the opposite wall, and, as promised, a private balcony. There was even a private bathroom and shower.

 _Something else you didn't get at the Fort Benning School for Boys. This won't be a bad trip._

Jack put his rucksack on the bed and began to unpack.

xxxxxxxxxx

The first two days of the cruise had included daylong stops at Key West, the southernmost island in the United States, and Miami, Florida. Tristan and the Needhams went snorkeling during the Key West stop but were not so interesting in the Miami layover. They had seen Miami before.

Tristan decided to introduce himself to the fitness center. Travis accompanied him. Tristan discovered that Travis was actually quite a fitness buff and attempted, unsuccessfully, to keep up with him during the workout routine. At the end of it, Travis was pleasantly winded and Tristan was drenched in sweat and clinging onto one of the machines for balance, his wobbly legs unable to support him.

He looked up at Travis, rivulets of sweat stinging his eyes. "Is this one of those "Your workout is my warmup" situations?'"

Travis laughed. "Pretty much. Don't let it discourage you. It's your first day. You're going to be sore and a bit miserable, at first. What you need to do is stretch, take a hot shower, eat some good food, not junk, and take a nap. Tomorrow, we can do this again. By the time we get to England, you'll be getting used to this. It will be a good head start for when you meet this Ashton guy."

Tristan smirked. "From what Jack was saying, he'd put us both to shame."

Travis paled. "Really?"

"Jack said he does two or three Iron Man competitions a year for fun. And harder workouts for combat training."

"Iron Man. Oh, heavens."

"What is the Iron Man?"

"You don't know?"

"Just the comic book guy."

"It's a very brutal race. There are different versions, but the usual one is a 3.86 kilometer (2.4 mile) swim, a 180.25 kilometer (112 mile) bicycle ride, and a marathon 42.20 kilometer (26.22 mile) run, raced in that order and without a break. There are some that are double that."

"Oh, man," said Tristan. "That's rough."

"Yeah, and you say he does these for fun?"

"That's was Jack said, yeah."

"What else does he do?"

"Jack said he runs a lot of companies. He said it's almost like he's one hundred people at once, maybe he is. The big one is a PMC in England."

"A what?"

"A private military corporation."

"So what you're saying is this guy that I'm going to meet next month to talk about IT manufacturing does Iron Man competitions for fun, two or three of them a year, and commands his own private army, as well?"

"Yep," Tristan grinned, still wobbly.

"Wow! That's heavy stuff."

"Is it time for that shower now?"

"Yeah, I think it is. Do you need help getting to the room?"

"I think I do, please." As they walked, Tristan added, "Are you hungry? I'm ravenous."

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day the ship turned east and set out for six days at sea. Travis had been right in that Tristan had been sore, but it had not been that bad. Tristan decided it had to do with Immortal recovery rates. He and Travis had decided to make a habit of pre-breakfast workouts. Tristan discovered, not surprisingly, this made him all the more voracious when mealtime came.

"I think you've eaten more this morning than you have in the last week," said Donna with a smirk.

Tristan took a long pull from his glass of orange juice before answering. "I did promise Daddy that I would stop looking like a skeleton, didn't I?" He grinned at her.

"Well, I saw you in your trunks at Key West, little one. You're not there yet."

Still grinning, Tristan stuck out his tongue. Donna did the same. "If I keep eating like this and working out with Travis, maybe that will change a little bit."

"Maybe. Travis looks good in his swim trunks."

"Oh, blech," said Tristan, leaning over and sticking and finger down his throat.

"Hey!" objected Travis. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you in swim trunks is not what's usually on my mind, that's all," clarified Tristan. "You're not my type."

"I'm not sure if I should be comforted or insulted by that comment." Travis sank in his seat, crossed his arms, and pretended to sulk.

"Now, Donna, on the other hand," Tristan clarified, getting out of his chair and walking over to her. "That's another story. She looked nice in her swimsuit."

Donna blushed. "Well, thank you, Tristan."

"You're welcome, pretty lady," he gushed, sliding into her lap.

"Oh, you little tease," she laughed, wrapping her arms around him.

He giggled and wiggled.

"Hey, that's my wife you're seducing, little man." Travis didn't move from his sulking position. He only smiled.

"And quite effectively, I might add," said Donna.

In an instant, Tristan's grin vanished. His head snapped toward the entrance to the dining room. He was out of Donna's lap before she realized it, his fists clenched. Disregarding the entrance, his feet moved his back to his chair as his eyes scanned the entire room with suspicion.

"What is it, Tristan?" whispered Travis, his posture returning to a normal position.

"There's another Immortal in here. One, maybe two, but I can't tell where they are. They're too far away, I guess. It's a big room. If they were closer, I could tell for sure. I just felt it for a moment, but they're here."

"How do you spot them after you feel them?" asked Donna in a low voice.

"Usually it's the other person looking around the room like you are or, if you're close enough, you can just tell. There are so many people who looked at me when I jumped up, though, that it threw me off. I can't tell."

With trepidation, Tristan picked up his silverware and began to eat again. There was no joy in it anymore. He did not speak for the rest of the meal. He merely scanned the room nonstop. Both Donna and Travis noticed how white his knuckles were around the silverware.

xxxxxxxxxx

The ocean air of the afternoon felt wonderful. Tristan stood on the deck overlooking the two large pools at the top of the ship. He had taken his turn playing with the kids in the water. Now it was time just to enjoy the sights and the air on his skin, the feel of the breeze blowing through his hair.

His eyes closed and his lips turned upward as the sensations overwhelmed him. The laughter and splashing below, the cool air, the sun above him. It was all perfect. The stresses of the morning drained out of him. He crossed his arms on the railing in front of him and gazed happily at the merriment below.

His eyes locked onto a pretty girl with long black hair below as she made her way to a deck chair. Her entrance got the attention of many of the other boys around the pools, as well. She wore an orange bikini which contrasted greatly with her tanned skin. A pair of dark sunglasses covered her eyes. She carried a thick paperback book in one hand and a glass with a little umbrella in the other. Tristan would have thought she was not much older, physically, than he was, but the umbrella in the glass made him think otherwise. She must be older if she was able to buy alcoholic drinks.

Tristan's shoulders tensed. The same sensations he had felt during breakfast were back. One Immortal, maybe two. _Was the girl one of them?_ He looked for any obvious sign. She didn't look about her. She just set her drink on the table by one of the chairs and stretched herself out, fanning her hair behind her back. She then opened her book and began to read. Tristan looked around the pool area. Again, everyone was too far way for him to get a positive reading on anyone. The people on the upper deck with him, he could tell, were not one of the Immortals. _Where are they?_

As before, Tristan was only getting the slightest of electric tremors along his spine and in his head, not the typical clanging of bells. They were just too far.

"So," he muttered, as he walked away. "They're down at the pool, I guess. I suppose that means it's a good time to go back to my room."

xxxxxxxxxx

Tristan with a contented grin on his face. He was nestled between Donna and Travis on the couch in the family villa as they watched a DVD on the television. They had selected a film none on them had seen before, _Secondhand Lions_ starring Michael Caine, Robert Duvall, and a teenaged Haley Joel Osment. They sat mesmerised as the child star turned two old grouches into two loveable old grouches along with the addition of a lion to the family farm.

"That was an incredible movie," cheered Tristan, as the credits rolled.

"It sure was," agreed Donna, still marveling at the cartoon drawings being displayed with the credits. "I didn't want it to end."

"I bet that kid was intimidated working with two greats like Duvall and Caine," opined Travis. "I would be."

"Even if he was, he didn't seem to show it," said Donna. "He did a great job."

"Oh, I'm not detracting from his performance at all. It was spectacular. He certainly held his own alongside two of the great stars."

"And what about you, little one?" asked Donna, leaning into Tristan and crushing him against her husband. This elicited an "Agh" and a grin from the boy. "How do you think he did in the movie?"

"I'm not an acting critic. I just think the whole thing was great." He looked at his watch. "Oh, I have to go." He hopped up. "I'm playing a game of Go with Taylor in a few minutes."

"You found someone on this ship who knows out to play Go?" Travis was amazed.

"I had to teach him, but he's really caught on fast. He loves it. We're starting on a full-sized board today. I'm supposed to meet him in the library in fourteen minutes."

"Okay," said Donna. "Have fun."

xxxxxxxxxx

"This is such a cool game, Tristan. Thank you for teaching it to me." Taylor Bordeaux beamed across the table at his new friend, his blond hair bleached even more so by all his time in the sunlight over the eight days. Tristan smirked at the sight of it.

"If your hair gets anymore blond, it's going to be transparent."

Taylor pulled down his bangs and observed the color. "Eh, everyone needs something special about them, don't they? That will be my thing. Let's keep playing."

"Okay, but even with this handicap, I'm not going to take it easy on you."

"Go for it."

Stones clicked on the board. The shapes grew more complex and the battles for territory became more pronounced.

"You're doing well," Tristan stated. "We're about even."

"Cool," said Taylor. "You can tell the score even when we're still playing? Without stopping and counting and rearranging everything?"

"It's a close guess, but it's enough to get a read on things. I'm not as good as a pro, but I'm okay."

Taylor's eyes widened. "There are pros? Really? People get paid to play this game?"

"Oh, yeah. They're are professional chess players and professional bowlers, so why not? They're all in Asia. China, Korea, and Japan, but they're are professional Go players. They're really good."

Taylor looked down at their game. "Wow. It would be cool to see a pro game."

"Yeah, it would."

Tristan stiffened.

"What's wrong?" asked Taylor.

"Uhm…"

Before he could say anything else, a person came into the library. Tristan's eyes were there immediately. He gasped softly. It was the pretty girl from the pool. She was dressed in mid-thigh shorts and a t-shirt now rather than the revealing swimsuit and carried another book in her hand. This time, however, rather than showing any apparent sign of searching for an Immortal, her eyes locked onto Tristan instantly, as well.

"Hello, boys," she said. Her voice was polite and soft. She began to walk toward them. Tristan tensed all the more.

Taylor swivelled his head in her direction. His jaw dropped.

"Uh, uh," she said, grinning, putting a fingertip under Taylor's chin. "Don't do that or flies might get in." She pushed his mouth closed. "Although I do like those big brown eyes of yours."

She smiled at the thirteen-year old. He gulped and tried to smile back. It was more of a grimace. The girl knelt on one knee next to Taylor, giggling, and rubbed her hand along his back.

"It's okay. You can breathe now. I don't bite... much. I'm Lisa. And you are?"

"T..T..Taylor."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Taylor." She offered her hand. Taylor took it as if he were afraid it would shock him. After the handshake, she looked at the board on the table. "And you play Go. Are you winning?"

"I..I don't think so. Tri..Tristan says we're about even right now."

"So you're Tristan, it's nice to meet another handsome little man." She smiled and extended her hand again. Tristan's expression of suspicion softened only slightly. He took her hand and shook it in the manner in which he was taught.

"Oh," she said. "Very good." Her smile only diminished a degree as she turned back to Taylor, placing a hand on his back again. "Taylor, would you be a dear and let Tristan and me talk privately for a while, please? You two can play your game again tonight, okay? Say at eight o'clock? Would that work?" She looked at Tristan.

"Sure," he muttered.

"Okay," blurted Taylor. "See you, Tristan." Taylor jumped out of his chair and darted from the room.

 _I hope,_ thought Tristan.

Lisa stood and took the boy's place in the chair, setting her book on the table. She grinned at Tristan. "I think I just made his day. What do you think?"

"He certainly looked like it," Tristan admitted, his voice flat.

"To use a cliche, I wanted to clear the air," said Lisa. "You've probably sensed me on the ship already. I just want you to know, now that I know you're the other one here, that I'm not a threat to you. I'm not your enemy. I'm just here to enjoy myself. That's all."

"Even if what you say is true," replied Tristan, "and forgive my bluntness, right now I have no reason to trust you, and what about the other one? There's another Immortal, at least one, on this ship."

Alyssa sat back in her chair. "Yes, you're right," she said solemnly. "On all counts. "You don't have any reason to trust me right now. You just met me. Well, maybe this will help. The other Immortal is Goran Lambros. He is about one hundred seventy-three centimeters tall with black hair, dark eyes, and a bushy black mustache, a bit plump. He's really hard to mistake once you know what you're looking for. He's a bit of a greasy character and that's putting it mildly. He's a human trafficker, sex trade stuff, women, children, that kind of thing. He's laying low by being on such a "low class" cruise as this one. If you see him, go the other way. Don't try to fight him."

"How do you even get weapons on this ship?"

"There are ways if you know people."

"I guess I don't know the right people."

Lisa's eyes fell. "You poor little guy." She looked at the Go board. "Well, you know Go so you obviously know something about tactics. Want to play a game?"

Tristan brightened. "Sure."

"I told you I wasn't your enemy," she repeated. "You can even come up to my room and visit, if you want."

"Not right away. Maybe later."

Lisa shrugged. "Fair enough, trust takes time after all." They began to clear the board. "Where did you get this? I've never seen a folding board with magnetic stones before?"

"It was a chance find while we were shopping for clothes and other things for the trip. There was a curiosity shop nearby and I don't think the owner really knew what it was. He sold it to me for ten dollars just to get rid of it. He thought it was a messed up version of Othello."

"Othello?" laughed Alyssa. "Oh, that poor man. He really did have no idea what he had. He could have sold it for so much more."

"Oh, yeah. Especially since no one in the states really plays the game yet. Do you need a handicap?"

"Let's start without one and see how things go. You play black."

"Okay. _Onegaishimasu._ "

" _Onegaishimasu._ "

They played silently for the first several moves, placing stones relatively quickly. They slowed down after the first twenty stones. Tristan, especially, became more contemplative with his placement. After one difficult battle in the lower right of the board, he began to grin.

"What's that all about, little man?" asked Lisa.

"I've seen that _tesuji_ before," he said. A _tesuji_ is a play in a local position. "For the last few years, I've been watching games online on the KGS Go Server. There's this player called Menina who uses that _tesuji_ all the time. I came up with a counter for it."

"And it worked, I see," said Lisa. "Very good. You survived."

Tristan looked up at her. "You're Menina?" Lisa grinned.

"Nice to meet you in real life. What was your name on KGS?"

"Terran."

"I don't think we ever played."

"We didn't. I just watched your games. You were very good, much better than me."

"Thank you."

Tristan puffed his cheeks. "I might be doomed here."

"It's not over yet. There's still a long way to go."

They continued playing. Tristan's face became more serious as the game progressed. Small droplets of sweat beaded on his brow. A formation of his stones in the lower left died under an assault from Lisa. He let them go before the loss got worse and moved on to other parts of the board.

The fight got intense in the upper left. Two large formations of their stones battled for life and control of a massive amount of territory. Both players took their time placing stones. The winner of this part of the board might swing the entire game. Tristan placed a stone at a critical juncture that sealed it all. Lisa's formation collapsed.

 _This is Menina, though. I can't get cocky. There is still a lot of the board left._

He was right. Lisa began an invasion of his territory on the right side. Tristan's defense began to crumble. He fought desperately, looking for anything to tighten his wall of stones. He sat back in his chair. He didn't see it. He closed his eyes. He didn't move for several seconds. His lids opened with glacial speed and focused on the stones. He reached for his stones and placed one on the board. His defense remained intact. The game was over.

"That was one of the hardest games I have ever played," admitted Tristan, sitting back and taking a deep breath. "Thank you."

"Thank you for being such a challenging player yourself," said Lisa. She studied the board. "You won by two and a half points. Very good." She sat back and examined the board again. A small grin formed on her lips. Only then did Tristan also notice the emerald green of her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was just thinking of someone I know who also plays this game. He'd crush either of us, he's so good; he's the one who taught me how to play. I think he'd be interested in meeting you. I could arrange it, if you like."

"There's someone I'm hoping to meet when I get to England already. Maybe I can meet your friend, too."

Lisa's grin broadened. "Perhaps. I think he'd be intrigued by you."

"Give me a little time to get used to the place, though, please. I've never been outside of the southern United States."

"I can tell by that cute little accent of yours."

Tristan blushed. "I thought I didn't really have one. I speak six languages."

"Oh, it's very slight, especially compared to some people I've met, like from Virginia or southern Alabama." Tristan smirked at the mention of Alabama. "Too close to home?" Lisa asked.

"No, I was just there recently. That's all. Speaking of accents, I can't place yours. It reminds me of a friend of mine. It's like a blending of accents into one. What is it?"

Lisa crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward, grinning, her eyes twinkling. "It's definitely a mutt of an accent, isn't it? At least that's what my boyfriend calls it. Naturally, he's one to talk. He's just as bad, but he's a clown anyway. Well, I spoke Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, German, Swiss German, Dutch, Greek, and French before I learned English. That was around 1890. It would only be natural that I would have a unique accent after one hundred and twenty years of other languages, don't you think?"

Tristan blinked and exhaled for a full second. "I guess so. Wow."

Lisa stood. "I know it's asking too much to be friends on the first official meeting." She extended her hand again. "Can we say, "Not enemies, but acquaintances?""

Tristan shook her hand. "Yes, we can do that." His brow creased. "At least for now."

Lisa laughed. "Fair enough, little man. Fair enough." She picked up her book and walked out.

xxxxxxxxxx

The ship had stopped the day before at the Azores archipelago for a day. Tristan had originally planned on staying on board until he had learned he could spend half a day snorkeling with dolphins. That had been enough to get him off the ship and into the water, at least for a while.

A day later, still giddy from that experience, he crept along the upper deck of the cruise ship in the late hours of the night. He took a look at his watch. 0137. _Maybe that nap right after dinner wasn't such a good idea. Now I'm up way too late. I'm going to regret this when Travis gets me up to go to the gym._ _I can at least float in the pool and look at the stars for a while. Maybe that will relax me._

He could just make out the stairs leading down to the pool in the moonlight. He could also hear voices down below.

"...owe me, you little bitch." Tristan didn't recognize the voice. "I expect prompt payment," the voice continued, "or that little ass of yours is going to be getting fucked on camera for the next decade."

"Fuck off, Lambros," came Lisa's voice. "That's not going to happen."

Laughter. "Oh, it will if I say it will." Tristan crept closer to the stairs, toward the source of the voices. He heard steel being drawn from a scabbard and a distasteful hiss from Lisa. "Or maybe I should just take a taste of what's down here myself and then take that pretty little head of yours. Just consider it done."

Tristan peered over the edge of the stairwell. In one glance, he saw it all. Lisa was cornered against the railing of the area opposite him. In front of her, his back to him, stood a black-haired man clad in formal evening wear. He held a machete in his hand. Its tip was currently between Lisa's legs, tapping against her inner thigh. Lisa wore a V-neck evening gown and a sharp scowl.

"Yes, I like that idea." She spit in his face. He slapped her with the back of his other hand. He brought his blade up, turning it over so its sharpened side was under her chin. Tristan guessed from Lisa's shudder that Lambros was grinning. The blade slid from her chin under her chin to her right gown strap. "Let's see what I have to look forward to," he growled. The delicate strap popped without resistance.

Several things happened at once. Half of Lisa's gown fell away, exposing her right breast. Lisa hissed again in protest. Tristan gasped and slipped on the stairs, nearly falling. At the same time, he wound up just within the necessary distance for both of the other Immortals to sense his presence. Lambros growled again and twisted around, searching for the unseen intruder.

Lisa, however, cocked back her right hand, and chopped a knife hand into his throat. At the same time, her left hand gripped the back of the machete and twisted it upward toward his thumb. The shock of the throat strike caused Lambros to momentarily forget about his grip on the blade. It slipped from his numb fingers as he choked and stepped back. Lisa took a firm grip of the handle with her right hand and swung once, a furious shout erupting from her lungs. The machete cleaved halfway through Lambros's neck. He wheezed his horror and pain, too much pain to scream. He tried to turn his neck to face her. His neck muscles would not respond properly. Lisa wrenched the blade out and swung again from the other side. Lambros's body fell at her feet, his head rolling next to it.

Looking over at Tristan as he gripped the railing on the stairs, Lisa gasped, "Thank you." Her voice was shaky. "Come down. I'm going to need help with him." Tristan nodded and stood. Lisa glanced at the blade in her hand and, with a shrug, tossed it overboard. Tristan had just made it to the bottom of the stairs when Lambros's body began to glow. He stopped and watched.

The Quickening was a dynamic, destructive event. The deck chairs and awnings around the pools were reduced to kindling and bits of singed fabric. The water in the pool evaporated almost completely. At the center of the storm, screaming in ecstatic agony, was Lisa, her entire body aglow as she received the majority of its power. Her limbs quivered uncontrollably and her eyes rolled back into her skull. Her dress even started to smoke. Tristan was afraid it might start to burn. She gripped the ship's railing frantically with one hand as huge bolts slammed into her body without mercy. Finally, the electric convulsions ended and Lisa fell to her knees, panting and awash in sweat.

Tristan walked over to her as she slowly sat up. His eyes fell to her exposed breast briefly and he looked away. She smirked at him and took his arm. "Don't worry about that right now, Tristan. Help me stand up. We have to get rid of him before others show up. Then we have to get out of here."

Tristan nodded. He let her lean on him as she stood and regain her balance. When he was sure she wouldn't fall, he reached for Lambros's head. He threw it over the side. Then they each grabbed an arm and pulled. Tristan was amazed at how little blood there was. When they were at the railing, they squatted and lifted, pushing the body up.

It took them both several attempts to get the dead weight into a relatively standing and balanced position. They both felt the pressure of time as they worked. Sweat poured down their faces. Their breathing came in labored gasps.

"Almost there," said Lisa.

Nodding, Tristan reached for Lambros's feet. They lifted again, grunting with the effort. Slowly, the body came up. They had it halfway up, balanced on the railing, when they had to stop for a breath. They looked into each other's eyes. They took three more breaths and nodded. With a final grunt, both gritting their teeth, they pushed again, and the body was over the side.

Lisa bent down and tore some fabric from her skirt. "Here." She pointed at the pool. "Jump down there and soak this. I'll clean up the blood."

Tristan leapt down and did as he as told. He heard her tear another strip of fabric as he did so. "Here," he said, handing it back and climbing over the edge.

Lisa scrubbed vigorously at the visible bloodstains. Tristan followed behind her with the other strip, drying and clearing away any reddish residue. In two minutes, they were finished. Lisa took the two strips and held them over the railing. Releasing them, they flew away.

She grabbed Tristan's arm. "Come on," she said. "Let's get to my cabin. We can't have much time left now."

They ran as fast as they could, adrenaline giving them extra speed. They reached the elevator and Lisa punched the button. Their patience was tried as they waited for the car to arrive, both hoping it would be empty when the doors opened. They were fortunate and rushed into the vacant lift. Lisa hit the button for deck fifteen and again they waited.

"There won't be many, if any, people moving around on my deck. We shouldn't have anyone see us. Once we get to my room, we're safe."

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The two Immortals rushed out. In seconds, they were in front of Lisa's door. She swiped her keycard and they were inside. She ushered Tristan inside and slammed the door behind her.

"Oscar. Oscar. Oscar," the ship's intercom announced.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

"That's the code to the ship's crew for man overboard," answered Lisa. "Someone must have seen the body fall and reported it." She sighed. "We got back just in time."

She looked down at her tattered, bloody dress. "I need to get out of this thing." She began to slip out of it.

Tristan remembered to be embarrassed. Lisa laughed as he blushed. "You don't have to be ashamed for my sake, dear. It's okay if my family sees me undress. After what we've just done, we're as good as family. You saved me back there and I thank you for it."

"I…saved you?"

"You distracted Lambros. You gave me the opportunity to kill him. That distraction saved me." Walking up to Tristan, her dress down to her hips and his face beet red, she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. "Thank you, little brother."

He looked up into her green eyes and grinned. "You're welcome."

"Now, give me a moment." She stepped into her bedroom and returned a moment later in a bathrobe. She held her dress and shoes, crumpled together, in one hand. She trotted over the to the balcony, slid open the door, and tossed it all over the side. "There goes $12,000," she said dryly.

"Your dress cost $12,000?" Tristan was incredulous.

The dress was $9,000. The shoes were $3,000."

"What do you do for money?"

"I'm a model," she said. "And I get paid well for it." She grinned at him. My boyfriend has this weird knack as a talent scout for child singers and fashion models. He does it, too."

"Singing?"

She laughed. "No, though he does have a nice voice. He a model, too, but he doesn't do it very often anymore. He doesn't really have to since he gets a little slice from all the people he sets up in the business." She listed off several prominent young vocalists. "Have you heard of any of them?"

"Yeah, most of them, actually. Some of them sound like they're from other countries, though."

"They are. Well, he's the reason they all got their start."

"Wow, maybe I need to meet him, too, just to chat."

"Yeah, maybe so." She put a hand on his cheek and stroked his face. "You do have the prettyboy face and physique for modeling, actually." Tristan blushed bright red.

Lisa laughed again. "That was a compliment, little guy. Now, let's check you out real quick. Make sure there are no obvious signs of blood or anything that could mark you as having been there."

She knelt in front of him and eyed him from top to bottom. Tristan wondered if this was the sort of appraisal slaves at market had to undergo. At least she wasn't asking to see his teeth.

"Turn around," she said. He did so. "Again." He did. "Let me see your hands." He held the out, palms down. He was starting to grin now. This was becoming a fun game. _How often does a pretty girl look at you like this?_

"Turn them over." He did. "Now let me see the bottom of your shoes." He showed her.

She stood. "Okay. Here's the verdict, little man. You need to wash your hands. There are a few spots on your palms, probably from the scrubbing and helping me lift the body. There are two drops of blood on the top of your right shoe, but it's on the rubber part, not the suede, which will make it easier to wash off. And your t-shirt is covered in blood. You might as well just throw it away. I don't see any in your hair or on your face, which is good. Other than that, you're fine."

Tristan looked down at his shirt. There were indeed several large blotches of blood all over it. He pulled it off immediately. Lisa pointed at the sliding glass door to her balcony. "You can drop it over the side out there," she said.

He went outside and stood in the night air. Looking out at the sea and stars, he muttered, "What a night," before letting the shirt fly into the breeze.

Stepping back inside, Tristan slid the door shut again. There was a lurching sensation under their feet. "What just happened?" he asked.

"The boat stopped. They're turning around to look for the body. It's normal procedure."

"Will they find it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll deal with that when it happens."

"Have you been through this kind of thing before?"

"Twice."

"Other beheadings?"

"No. One time a guy got drunk and tried to fly and another time a depressed teenager tried to end it all."

"What happened?"

"The birdman didn't have wings and the teenager was successful. They both died, at least I think so. Each time the ship turned around to look for them. For the drunk guy, they never found them and eventually continued on their way. For the teen, they they called the Spanish coast guard to help and found his body floating in the water about two kilometers from where he had jumped. With Lambros, well, we're in international waters. There are no nations to help. If there are other ships of any sort nearby, they're obligated by international law to assist in the search. We don't know what's around here, of course. Like I said, we'll worry about Lambros when, and if, they find him."

Lisa squinted her eyes. "There are blood stains on your chest and shoulders. Turn around. Yep, they're on your back, too. You should take a shower. Go ahead and go first. You probably don't take showers for as long as I do. I'll wait."

After they had both washed, they lounged on Lisa's sofa, their feet on the coffee table. Tristan wore her other bathrobe. It swallowed him but he found it comforting.

"Can I ask you a question?" queried Tristan. Remembering Penance's answer to that from decades ago, he added, "And don't say, "You just did.""

Lisa smirked. "You sound like my boyfriend when you say that. Sure, go ahead."

"Do you mind telling me why that guy, Lambros, was threatening you?"

"Oh, that." She leaned her head back on the sofa cushions. "I used one of his organizations for some business a few years ago. Under the table stuff, but not too shady. Just enough that I didn't want to use legit help. Know what I mean?"

"Kind of." Tristan nodded.

"Anyway. Lambros said I didn't pay enough for the work his people did. I paid exactly what we agreed. He just didn't like the fact that what they were transporting turned out to be more valuable than they thought."

"What were they transporting?"

"Uh, uh. That would be telling." She shook a finger. "A girl's got to have some secrets. Let's just say it was worth more than diamonds or gold."

"Wow!"

"Yeah. When Lambros got a hint of the stuff's true value, he wanted triple the rate. I told him to shove it. I paid his people what we'd agreed. They were happy and we walked away. He was livid and never forgave me."

"What was that about a camera?"

"Ah, yes. He was threatening to have me make porn films until he was tired of me."

Tristan's jaw went slack. His whole body shivered. He pulled his knees up to his chin and squeezed them as tightly as he could. "Killing him wasn't good enough," he whispered through gritted teeth.

Lisa's eyes went wide. She scooted closer to him. In a soft voice, she asked, "You've had to do it yourself, haven't you?"

Tristan said nothing, only nodded. Lisa put her arms around him and pulled him close. "I'm so sorry, little one."

They sat like that until they both fell asleep.

The morning sunlight through the windows awoke Lisa a few hours later. She reached for Tristan's scrawny wrist and took a look at his watch. She nudged him.

"Tristan," she whispered.

"Mmmm?" he moaned.

"It's almost six o'clock. You should probably get dressed and get back to your room. You can come visit me tonight, if you like. I'll give you my room number before you go."

The boy's eyes slowly opened as she spoke. He rubbed his eyes as he sat up. "I'd rather stay here. Being cuddled up next to you is very comfortable."

"Go on, little darling. You can do that again tonight." Lisa couldn't resist her own smile, though. She had enjoyed having his tiny body curled up next to her, as well. _Like a little puppy,_ she thought.

Tristan undid the belt of his robe and slid it off. In his weariness, he forgot he was wearing nothing underneath. His back to Lisa, he draped the robe over a chair and began to don his own clothing again. Lisa just grinned and remembered her own comment about family. As he dressed, she stood and took a notepad from a nearby table. She scribbled her name and room number on it. Tearing the sheet from the pad, she handed it to him.

"Here you go. I hope you come visit."

"I will," he said, buttoning his jeans and putting the paper in his pocket. He looked up at her and added, "Big sister."

Lisa grinned.

xxxxxxxxxx

The body of Goran Lambros was never found. Including the six hours of searching, the Norwegian Gem had lost just under a total of eight hours travel time. They gave their guests a choice and took a poll. They could go to their two scheduled stops at Cork, Ireland and Falmouth in Cornwall, UK for the allotted amount of time and arrive in Southampton eight hours late or have abbreviated stops at each point and arrive at Southampton on time. When the votes were tallied, the majority opted to arrive in Southampton on time; the stops in Cork and Falmouth would each be cut by four hours.

"I'm not sure how happy the tourist traps at each of those place will be," commented Travis when the announcement was made. "It's going to cut into their revenue for sure."

"The customer is always right, Travis," reminded Donna.

"Of course, you're right, Donna."

"I always am." She grinned.

"Oh, blech," said Tristan, with his own grin and a finger down his throat.

"Oh, come here, you little devil," said Donna, reaching over and pulling the boy from his chair into her lap. "Stick your little finger down your throat, will you?" she chided with merriment in her voice as her fingers worked their way into his ribs. Tristan's legs shot out in front of his reflexively as convulsive laughter erupted from within him. A few tables away, a pretty girl with black hair and green eyes watched the game with obvious enjoyment.

The boy's wiggling made him harder to hold. Donna wrapped one arm around his chest, making sure the hand went under his arm to continue the assault, and kept working on his ribs with the other hand.

"I'm getting jealous now," said Travis. "I want to join in, but it would cause too much of a scene."

Donna smirked at him. "We could always carry him back to our room and continue there."

Travis grinned. "No, no," protested Tristan, though he was smiling himself.

"I think it's a grand idea," said another voice.

The Needhams looked up. So did Tristan. A pretty dark-haired girl who looked like she might be in her late teens or early twenties stood before them. Tristan sat up in Donna's lap. "Hi, Lisa."

"Hi, Tristan," she grinned. The girl extended her hand to Travis. "Hi, I'm Lisa. I hope you don't mind me barging in on your play. I met Tristan last night while he was out for a walk. We spent several hours chatting. We had a grand time. I thought it would be appropriate if I met his parents, too."

Travis stood and bowed slightly at the waist. He took her hand. "Ooh, a gentleman," cooed Lisa.

"A pleasure, Lisa," said Travis.

Lisa turned her smile and her hand to Donna. She took a step forward since Donna couldn't stand with Tristan in her lap. "Miss?"

"Donna, please."

"Donna, it's nice to meet you."

They shook. "Well," said Donna. "If this little man," she shook Tristan as she spoke, making his grin even wider, "approves of you, then so do we. Why don't we order lunch in the room and continue our little game there?"

Lisa flashed mischievous eyes at Tristan. "Perfect," she said.

xxxxxxxxxx

The Needhams were originally going to order a steak and shrimp lunch but, upon learning that Lisa was Jewish and preferred to each as kosher as possible, opted to steak and lamb instead. Travis made the call to the concierge. As they sat waiting, the conversation inevitably turned to the prior night's events.

"Lisa," asked Donna. "Did you or Tristan see anything at all having to do with that man that went missing?"

"No," she said. "We sat by the pool talking for a while then we went up to my room. We fell asleep on my sofa after a while." She looked over at Tristan. When I woke up, he was curled up next to me with his head in my lap like a little puppy. It was very cute."

Tristan blushed and lowered his head. Lisa leaned over to him and ran her fingers through his hair. "Oh, don't be embarrassed. All boys do that. It's natural. Never stop."

"Okay," he whispered. "I won't."

Travis added, "The crew said there was some sort of vandalism on the pool deck, also. Someone destroyed a lot of the deck furniture and drained the pools. I don't know why anyone would want to do that. It makes no sense."

"Yeah, that's just weird," said Tristan. He glanced over at Lisa. "Now you can't work on your tan."

Lisa's jaw dropped. "Have you been watching me sunbathe, you little perv?" she gasped. She stood and held her arms akimbo, glaring down at him with such harsh accusation even the Needhams wondered if she were indeed serious. Tristan stared up at her, his mouth agape. All he could utter were meaningless monosyllables. Finally, Lisa let her arms drop and sat down again.

"It's okay. I was just joshing you. That's partly the reason I was out there anyway, just to mess with the overly-hormonal boys on the deck. Knowing a little doll like you was also looking is very comforting, even flattering. Thank you." She put an arm around his shoulder and squeezed. The Needhams breathed again.

"You had us going there, Lisa," said Donna. "Have you ever considered theater?"

Lisa grinned. "I've done theater. Stage, not film, although it was in Italian and German, not English."

"Wow! You speak other languages?" said Travis. "How many"

"Fluently or all of them?"

"Both," said Donna.

"Uhm," though Lisa. "Let's see. Fluently, ten. And I can get by in six others."

Donna queried, "Is that why you have that interesting accent?"

"Yes, English isn't my first language."

With wonderment in her voice, Donna continued, "What is it, then?"

"My sixth."

"My goodness. As young as you are, you must be picking up a language a year. You must do a lot of travelling."

Lisa glanced at Tristan as she laughed, saying, "I travel quite a bit."

"They know," said Tristan.

"Really?"

Tristan nodded.

"About you?"

Another nod.

"Oh, wow."

The Needhams looked at each other and then back at Lisa. "You're Immortal, too," said Travis.

With her own nod, Lisa stated, "Yes."

"So how old are you?" asked Donna. "In biological and chronological years?"

"Fifteen. And two hundred fifty-one."

Travis's gaze flickered to Tristan briefly. His index finger pointed slightly in the boy's direction as he said, "Then, based on what you described two weeks ago, does that mean what happened on the pool deck was…?"

"A Quickening," finished Tristan.

"Tristan," Lisa said with a serious tone. "Should we really tell them this?"

"Have you ever heard of Watchers, Lisa?" asked Tristan.

"Yes, I know a little about them."

"Travis and Donna are Watchers. They're new. They haven't been trained yet, but it's safe to talk to them. Officially, though, we're not doing it. If anyone else comes in the room, they're just my adopted parents. Speak freely."

"So all that destruction on the deck and the draining of the pool was the result of the Quickening?" asked Donna.

"The pool wasn't drained," clarified Tristan. "The water was evaporated by the Quickening's power. That's not all of it. Most of its force went somewhere else."

"Where?" This came from Travis.

Tristan pointed. "Into Lisa. Her dress almost caught on fire. It was smoking at the end of it all."

Lisa puffed out her cheeks and let the air out. "I thought I was on fire."

Donna leaned forward. "Why did it go into her?"

"Because I killed Goran Lambros last night. I cut off his head with a machete."

"Oh, my God," exclaimed Travis. "Why?"

"For one thing, he was about to rape me. He was cutting away my dress. Besides that, he was probably going to take my head afterward. Tristan showed up and the sensation of his presence distracted Lambros long enough for me to take his machete away from him and take his head. That's when the Quickening happened. Tristan then helped me dump his body over the railing. The part about us spending the rest of the night in my room was true." Lisa curled her fingers in her lap and stared down at them. "I'm sorry about lying about the rest of it."

Again, the Needhams looked at each other in that silent communication method of theirs. Turning back to Lisa, Donna replied, "No apology necessary. Now that we know the real story, all is forgiven."

There was a knock at the door. "Agreed," said Travis, standing. "Let's eat."

"So, I have a question," requested Tristan after the attendant had left. "I guess this would be for you, Lisa. Why was there so little blood after you killed Lambros?"

"Hardly a meal topic," countered Donna, as she portioned Caesar salad into a bowl. She offered it to Lisa.

"No, thank you." At Donna's confused raised eyebrow, Lisa added with a small grin. "The cheese. It's mixing dairy and meat in the same meal."

"Wow," replied Donna, handing the bowl to Tristan. "There are a lot of rules in your diet, aren't there?"

"There are, but you can make some incredible meals when you stick to them, also. If you give me your email address, I can recommend some great kosher restaurants in your area. None of that halal stuff, either."

"What's halal?" asked Travis.

"Halal means food that conforms to Muslim dietary rules."

"I thought they were the same. I mean Jews and Muslims both abstain from eating pork, right?"

"That's true, but there's a lot more to it. _Halal_ in Arabic means lawful or permitted, just like _haram_ means unlawful or not permitted. Similarly, the Hebrew word, _kasher_ , means fit, like fit to eat. Here's the funny part, and the way to make a long story short, what is kosher is always halal, because the laws of _kashrut_ , what makes things kosher, are stricter than - but meets all of - halal food standards. What is halal is not necessarily kosher."

"You'd think," said Donna, "that Muslims and Jews would get along better than they do, then." She smiled. "At least in restaurants."

Lisa grinned, too. "If you don't pay attention to the media, there is actually a lot of cooperation between them. Believe it or not, many of the so called Palestinians in the camps in what the reporters call the occupied territories of Israel actually cross into Israel every day, peacefully, I should add, to work, and then go back to the camps."

"Really?" asked Travis. "Why doesn't the media cover that?"

"It's contrary to their intent. They've been against Israel since it was reinstated. Have you noticed how they never say the capital is in Jerusalem, either, but Tel Aviv?" Lisa grimaced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to digress into politics."

"It's okay," said Donna. "It's the natural flow of conversation."

"Anyway, back to what you were asking, Tristan, and to rebut what you said, Donna." Lisa smirked. "I wouldn't say the question is entirely inappropriate. My boyfriend and his buddy, Darren, once had a conversation with an A&E surgeon for an hour - oh, sorry, an A&E surgeon is an accident and emergency doctor, you would say emergency room doctor, I guess. Anyway, they talked about trauma surgery for two hours over dinner one night and never blinked an eye as they ate. Tristan's question is mild compared to that."

"Well, when you put it that way, please continue," said Travis. "I suppose we'll have to learn about this eventually anyway."

"Okay, this is just my theory, but I guess it's as good as anything. The Quickening, at least what we see of it, seems to be primarily composed of electricity. I guess this makes sense since the body is a bioelectric organism."

Travis perked up. "When Tristan cut his hand, we saw little sparks of electricity jumping across his palm as it healed."

"Ah, you've seen it, then. Well, I think Immortals have significantly more bioelectricity than mortals. When an Immortal is beheaded, all of that power has to somewhere. Some of it scatters about and results in the "vandalism" you heard about on the pool deck, but the vast majority of it is attracted to a like entity, another Immortal."

Donna interrupted. "But there were two of you there. Why would it have gone to you instead of Tristan? Was it because you were closer?"

"No, I've seen things like that before, too. Even if there were many more Immortals around, the Quickening would always go to the one that took the head. Whenever I am fighting - or killing - an Immortal, I always feel this sort of bond, a kind of resonance. I think it's some kind of synching of electrical wavelengths. The Quickening then seeks out what is most similar to it when it's released, a synched wavelength. Like I said, it's just my theory.

"Back to the blood thing, and here is where my idea gets a little deep and weird. I think it has to do with molecular bonds. When the Quickening transfer first starts…"

"When the Immortal has just been killed, you mean?" asked Donna.

"Yes, when that starts, at first, there is this sort of glowing mist around the body, mostly around the neck. It starts almost as soon as the head has come off the body. I think there is so much power in the Quickening that it breaks the molecular bonds on the blood cells and reduces them down to their basic components."

"Carbon, hydrogen, iron, etcetera," added Travis.

"Exactly. There is still some blood left. That's why I had to throw away my dress and Tristan had to throw out his shirt, but there is nowhere near as much as if a mortal had been decapitated. Oh, there would have been liters of the stuff everywhere."

"Quite a lesson," said Donna, looking a little pale. "Dessert, anyone?"

"What is it?" asked Tristan.

Travis lifted the cover off the tray to reveal the dish. "Peach pie."

"Ooh, yes, please," agreed Lisa.

xxxxxxxxxx

22 July 1972

Orlando, Florida

"Well, we're here. Now what do we do?"

Penance adjusted his foot on the black pavement, his other resting on the pedal of his bike. He turned and squinted into the evening sun as he pondered his reply. His iron blue eyes glinted in the light.

Without answering, he dismounted and walked his bike over to some trees near the road. He lowered the bike onto the ground. Tristan followed him. Penance sat by his bike and slowly doffed his new backpack. He unzipped it and dug around inside.

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

Penance pulled from the pack a ratty brown piece of fluff. It was fur, probably a fine fur in its time, too, but now little more than mottled scraps of its former self. Its shape was barely recognizable: a fox's head, separated from the garment it once graced, with two mismatched plastic eyes beaming with a dead luster from carved sockets.

"This," said Penance, setting the fox head on the bike in front of him so it was facing them, "is Galabeg. Call her, uhm, the silent advisor in my head. A muse, if you will. I use her when I need to think."

"Does she help?"

"Sometimes. And other times she just pisses me off."

Tristan giggled. "So what's she saying right now?"

"That we're bloody idiots for not having a roof over our heads right now. But that doesn't help 'cause we knew we'd have that problem when we decided to come here." Penance tilted his head back, gazing at the branches above him. "This wouldn't the first time I've slept outdoors, if I had to."

"I hope we don't have to do that," said Tristan.

"Be prepared for it. There will be nights when we have no choice. And when we're hungry, too. I've spent many nights sleeping on streets and eating out of dumpsters."

"Ugh."

"It's better than not eating. You'll do all kinds of things when you get hungry enough."

"What about that Caphtor thing? Have you figured that out? Does Gawabag…?

"Galabeg."

"Galbabeg, sorry. Did she give you any ideas about that?"

"I've asked her before, but I can try again. What say you, Galabeg?" He stared into the fox's eyes for several long seconds. He shifted uncomfortably and continued staring. A moment later, his jaw went slack and his eyes darkened.

"Stupid bitch," he spat, lashing out with his foot. His shoe hit the bike's tire, the impact reverberating across the frame and causing the fox head to rock and then slip from its perch. It rolled down to rest by his other foot, its lifeless eyes glaring up at him.

"Don't look at me like that. You're the one who said it." A second later, he said in a more conciliatory tone, "Yeah, but I did kick the bike."

"What? What did she say?" Tristan wasn't sure if he was curious or frightened by what he had just seen.

She said, "The time isn't right yet."

xxxxxxxxxx

16 May 2004

The Norwegian Gem

"How did you and your boyfriend meet, Alyssa?"

"Are you sure you want to know? You're going to meet him tomorrow."

"Yeah. I'd like to know."

"My little man won't get jealous?"

Tristan giggled and rearranged himself slightly on the couch in Alyssa's cabin. He lay comfortably on his side, his head in her lap. Her right hand rested lightly on his side while the left slowly stroked his hair. A contented smile stretched across his lips.

"I promise I won't," he responded.

"Well, okay," Alyssa replied. "I'll tell you, but I'll change a few names. Some of my friends wouldn't like it if I willy nilly gave out their names. I'm sure you understand."

"Yep. No problem."

"It was a New Year's Eve party, 1929. The party had been in full swing for almost three hours. The food was abundant and the beer and spirits had flowed. Prohibition was still in effect but no one was going to question it there. While no one was paralytic, all were all decidedly merry.

"It was twenty-five minutes before twelve when Charles Ulrich, a friend of, let's call him Nathan Graham tapped him on the shoulder. "You do intend to keep with tradition, don't you?" he asked with a smile.

Graham smiled back, sharing the joke with the sort of comfort afforded to fair haired people at Hogmanay. Hogmanay, or First Footing, is a Scottish tradition. It has been held that your new year will be a prosperous one if, at the strike of midnight, a tall, dark stranger appears at your door with a lump of coal for the fire, or a cake or coin. In exchange, you offered him food, wine or a wee dram of whisky, or the traditional Het Pint, which is a combination of ale, nutmeg and whisky. If the first through your door is fair-haired, he will bring with him the fairies, or evil spirits. Very few households leave this to chance.

""Oh, yes. I definitely intend to keep with tradition." Graham turned, peering into the crowd. It took him a moment, but he finally spotted the person he wanted.

"Jeff Laramie, my boyfriend-to-be.

"Jeff, mindful of the time, had slipped to the back of the party, warily circling. He'd done it almost every year of the eight-hundred-plus that he and Nathan had been friends and he'd be damned if he'd do it this year. It was bloody cold out there!

"He watched Graham speak to Charles Ulrich, then move on to share a joke with Max Honnecker, another friend of ours.

""Isn't it a bit past your bedtime?" I asked from behind him, stealing his attention. He turned to find himself staring into my eyes.

"Jeff affected his most charming smile. "Well, this being a special night and all. I must confess, I am a bit tired though. Perhaps we – I mean I – should go for a lay down." I'm sure he was about to inquire whether I would like to join him when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Time to get your coat, Jeff," Nathan Graham told him. "He'll be back in about fifteen minutes, Lisa. After that he's all yours."

"I gave a shy smile to Graham, a seductive wink to Jeff and drifted off into the party, still within earshot.

""Aww, Nathan, do I have to? You always pick on me. Can't you get someone else to do it this year? Why can't Donald do it? He's darker than me anyway."

""Well, when we send Donald out there, he chucks the coal, loses the coin, eats the cake and the damn whiskey glass is empty before he gets anywhere close to coming through the front door.

"Jeff tried another argument. "Why not Vincent, then? He's dark. And he's tall, too. Isn't that important? I bet he's never done it. It will be an adventure for him."

"Graham shook his head. "I did try, believe me I did. But Vincent doesn't believe. And it has to be someone who believes – or we might as well not bother." Then he gave Jeff the same line he had done every Hogmanay. "You know if I could do it myself, Jeff…"

""Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know," Jeff mumbled, reaching for his coat. "But that would bring in the fairies and we wouldn't want to do that, would we?" His tone said that he didn't really care if the fairies came in and took over, as long as he didn't have to venture out into the cold.

""Hurry up, Jeff," encouraged Charles Ulrich as he passed. "It's damn near midnight."

"Jeff slipped into his coat, all the while muttering to himself. "I think you just invite me to your New Year's Party so that I can do this, Nathan," he accused as he headed for the door. "Next year, I'm dying my hair blonde, I swear I am."

"Nathan handed him a full tumbler of whiskey, a lump of coal, a piece of fruitcake and a coin. He dallied over the last item.

"It was a Roman coin, the same one they had used every New Year they had spent together. Using it was as much tradition as First Footing. It had become a good luck charm, and neither would ever consider using anything else.

""Here you go," Graham said, placing the coin in Jeff's hand. "Don't lose it."

""You say that every bloody year," Jeff retorted, heading out the door.

"I watched him standing out there, rubbing his freezing hands together. He peered in through the panel of glass beside the back door, watching the happy revelers assemble themselves for the midnight countdown. Nathan was making sure everyone's glass was full in preparation for the toasts. Vincent was quickly trying to finish off the last of the spinach dip.

"Jeff noticed me and I gave a little wave, then held up two glasses of champagne and raised an eyebrow. He nodded eagerly. If not for Nathan Graham and his wondrous Scottish tradition, Jeff was sure he would be would be ringing in the New Year with some very in-depth research into the complications of the latest of ladies dresses. But as it was, he was investigating what the maximum number of goose bumps on a body could be. He hugged himself and stamped his feet.

"Suddenly, he felt it. I could tell from his expression. The presence. It didn't exactly startle him; after all there were thirty such presences just a few short feet away from him. But this one was coming from a different direction.

"A late comer? he must have wondered. He reached inside his coat instinctively, not willing to leave it up to chance. Best to be ready, just in case.

"Whoever it was wasn't very subtle. The crashing through the trees more than heralded their arrival. I recognized him. It was Travis Kent, drunk off his ass, lurching through the last shrub and stumbling onto the lawn, sword in hand.

""There campy onion," he muttered loud enough even I heard him, squinting at the boy in front of him.

""What?" Jeff asked.

"Travis took a deep breath and tried again. "There canopy oily gun!" He took a step forward, swinging his sword. The swing was clumsy and he spun in a wild pirouette. Once started in such a movement, it was hard for him to stop. He was like a spinning top, around and around and around, his sword outstretched.

"Jeff watched, trying not to get dizzy. He thought it was Travis Kent, but the light had been bad and he wasn't sure. He watched the body spin more; whoever it was was giggling now and muttering 'Wheeeee' in a slurred voice.

"Too late, Jeff saw the steep stone steps that led down from the upper level of the garden to the lower. "Look out," he called, but it was too late.

"Travis Kent's foot stepped out from the top step and into nothing. He tried to pull himself back but it was too late. He was falling, careening wildly through the air; arms outstretched like an eagle.

"The landing was brutal. His right arm, his sword arm, hit first, at the elbow. The arm moved reflexively back – and so did the sword. Travis Kent's body landed half way down Nathan Graham's garden steps – but his head rolled all the way to the bottom.

""Oh, shit!" muttered Jeff. He must have debated diving behind the shed, but knew that it was Nathan's pride and joy and doing so would only invite the Quickening to destroy it. Instead he took a deep breath and tried to relax. I almost laughed out loud at the hopelessness in his stance.

""Five."

""Four."

""Three."

""Two."

""One."

""Happy New Year!" The crowd screamed as one, noisemakers adding to the serenade. Graham, Honnecker and Ulrich raised their glasses in a toast to the New Year. Vincent blew his noisemaker as loud as he could in Richard Mallory's ear. Mallory, who had passed out an hour earlier, snored on, oblivious.

""Hey, Nathan," someone yelled. "I didn't know you had arranged for fireworks?"

""I didn't," Graham replied.

""Well, someone's set up a hell of a display in your backyard!"

"The crowd moved to the window, oohing and aahing at the light show.

""What happened to Jeff?" Charles Ulrich asked.

""Yeah," Vincent added. "What happened to Jeff? Wasn't he supposed be the first to do something?"

"Graham looked out the window, recognizing the fireworks display for what it really was. "Oh, I think he has been," he remarked dryly.

"There was a tapping at the front door. Nathan opened it and there stood Jeff, his hair all a mess and steaming. He looked like he was about to collapse. Nathan stepped aside and invited him in with a sweeping gesture. Jeff stepped in and just stood quietly. Once the door was shut, he turned and looked up at Nathan, handing him the coin.

""This time _I'm_ eating the cake and drinking the whiskey," he said defiantly and then did so right there. He belched loudly and handed Nathan the empty glass. He then said, "I need something more," and turned to look into the crowd. I saw his eyes scan the room until they finally fell on me. His first step stumbled, but he then began to walk toward me.

"When he reached me, he tried to grin and said, "Is that champagne offer still open? Maybe a bottle or two? Or something stronger?"

""Oh, you poor dear," I said. "A Quickening can certainly put a damper on a party, can't it?"

"He nodded, accepted the glass from me, and asked if he could take my hand. Naturally, I said yes. We went to a somewhat quieter part of the house and had those two or three bottles of champagne and a "bottle of Nathan's stronger stuff while we talked. We talked for a long time. Eventually, he recovered from how zapped the Quickening can leave you and was getting back to his usual self. Of course, he had to contend with what the alcohol was doing to him. I had to do the same, as well.

"We switched to juices and munchies after that and kept chatting. He really was a bubbly and interesting boy. Like I said, I think you and he would get along. You have a lot in common. The more we talked, the more I found myself drawn to him. He really was magnetic. Well, things progressed beyond talking from there."

"What does that mean?" asked Tristan, rolling over so he could look up at her.

Lisa laughed, turning her face to the ceiling. "Oh, my sweet little boy. We started doing other things boys and girls do when they're really into each other. Do I need to draw you a picture?"

Tristan blushed. "No. I get it." He rolled back onto his side.

Lisa continued to stroke his hair. "My dear little Tristan, I'm not a virginal little saint, you know."

"I know," said Tristan. "I'm still surprised sometimes when people are so upfront about mentioning it. That's all."

Lisa chuckled again. "You'll get over that around my boyfriend real fast then. He talks about it all the time. I guess most boys do, though."

"I don't," countered Tristan.

"Most teenage boys, I guess. I like you the way you are, Tristan. Don't ever change."

Tristan grinned. "I won't."

"So that's how we met. Are you happy now?"

The grin grew. "Yeah, I am."

"Are you jealous?" Her tone was high-pitched, comical.

Tristan giggled. "No."

"Are you sure?" She added a light tickle with her right hand for emphasis. Tristan's legs shot out as he convulsed in reaction.

"No!" he shrieked, his white teeth showing in a wide smile as he rotated onto his back to protect his side from further tickling. This, of course, just exposed his abdomen and other side, which Lisa attacked with both hands.

"I think you are."

Curling into a fetal ball as he laughed, Tristan screamed, "I'm not," but it was to no avail. The game continued until both of them were breathless.

xxxxxxxxxx

17 May 2004

Southampton, England

"Are you nervous?"

Travis's question almost didn't register with Tristan. The boy stood on the pool deck, bag over his shoulder, looking across at the port of Southampton below. His hand rested on the railing, fingers tapping in a slow rhythm only he could hear. He tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow the lump in his throat. He coughed, gagged a little. That helped.

"Yeah, I am. A lot, actually." He turned to face the Needhams. Lisa stood with them, looking at him with affectionate concern. He felt his eyes begin to mist over with...nerves...? Or was it fear? He slowly shifted his gaze to each pair of eyes in front of him before he spoke. His tongue felt heavy. So did his feet. He pointed behind him.

"When I step off this boat," he said, "and onto that soil over there, it might as well be a whole different world. You're damn right I'm nervous. More than that. I'm scared.

"I don't know what's out there. It's another country. Yeah, they speak English, but it might as well be another language. I haven't been here before, but I already know that. I don't know how things work. I don't know the right words for things. I don't even know where the people I want to find are.

"This is going to be just like when I arrive in a new city or state back in the U.S. I'm going to have to spend time just getting used to things, learn the lingo, become part of the place rather than an outsider. It's not going to be easy. It's going to be even harder because of this." He pointed to his mouth. "The moment I speak, people will know I'm from out of town. I have to lose my accent quickly or at least make it less obvious. Then I have to figure out have to move around out there, how to get where I need to be.

"To make matters worse, I don't even have my bayonet with me. I'm unarmed. If I run into another Immortal, I'm helpless. So, yeah, Travis, I'm a little nervous."

Donna looked at her husband, her own eyes welling up, as well. "I wish we could stay with him longer."

Travis put an arm around her shoulder. "Me, too."

Tristan wiped his eyes. "It's okay. Our agreement was to come this far. Once we get through customs, our deal is complete. You did what my family and I asked of you and I am so grateful for it."

Even though Donna knew the hug was coming, she gasped when it actually happened. "You've been a great mom these last two weeks, Donna. Thank you so much." He squeezed her tighter.

"And you were a great son. I wish we could have had a child like you." Their embrace lasted for almost a full minute.

"You know you're not getting out of this with a "thank you" and a handshake, Travis," Tristan teased when he was free from Donna. A playful grin spread across his lips.

"Somehow, I didn't think it would be that easy, either. Come here." Tristan practically ran into him.

"You were a great dad, Travis. And I have a great one already. Thank you for helping me."

"It was my pleasure, Tristan. Keep up with your workouts, okay?"

"I will. I promise," he said, with another squeeze.

Tristan stepped back from Travis and turned to Lisa. She held up a hand. "Wait up a minute, little man. As much as I love hugs, I have suggestion before you give me one. How about you come with me to the park just over there." She pointed across the railing. "I'm meeting my boyfriend there in a little while. After your impassioned speech, I thought he and I could show you around a bit and help ease your integration into the culture. We've both had experiences that I think might be similar to yours and maybe we could assist. What do you think?"

"Your boyfriend is an Immortal, too?"

"Yes," she nodded. "And a crafty one. You could learn a lot from him."

Tristan turned and looked out over the railing again. Below, he saw the chaos of cars on the street, people moving about their business, birds swooping up and down. Off in the direction where Lisa had pointed, he could see the green swatch of a tiny park. He looked up at the sky, following the path of a particularly cloud for a while. His eyes fell back to the park. His fingers tapped the railing. He twisted his neck to one side, then the other, and flexed his shoulders. Hopping twice on his toes, he took a deep breath and let it out. He turned and looked into the girl's emerald eyes.

"Okay, Lisa. I'll go with you."

END OF ACT I


	13. New Kid in Town

p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2; text-align: center;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Act II/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2; text-align: center;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"England, 2004/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2; text-align: center;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2; text-align: center;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Author's Note: Every now and then, I will add a parenthetical clarification of a British term. It will usually be in the form of (Americans call it X). If this happens to fall in the middle of dialogue, it is not intended to mean that the character said this./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong id="docs-internal-guid-ccebdaf3-7fff-1fc2-1033-de6354278c62" style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"a style="text-decoration: none;" href=" document/d/13zGX9ZCA1wx8UbijuPQam1LzKDOaq6EuDXm1_oQtRpI/edit#bookmark= 7iznia"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #1155cc; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: underline; -webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"12/span/a/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"New Kid in Town/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""There's talk on the street; it sounds so familiar./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Great expectations, everybody's watching you./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"People you meet, they all seem to know you./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Even your old friends treat you like you're something new./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny come lately, the new kid in town./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Everybody loves you, so don't let them down."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""New Kid in Town"/span span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"- Don Henley / John Souther / Glenn Frey/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"17 May 2004/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Southampton, England/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Passport, please."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Travis handed the document to the customs official. The uniformed man examined it efficiently. "Purpose of your visit, sir?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Business, mostly."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""And where will you be staying, sir?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""The Blakemore at Hyde Park."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Going to get in a little sightseeing on your way to London, then."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Naturally. That's why I brought the family along."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The official stamped Travis's passport and gave it back with a smile. "Enjoy your stay, sir." He looked at Donna. "Madam?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""And I presume you have the unfortunate status of being married to this gentleman here, Mrs. Needham?" asked the official, scanning her passport perfunctorily. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Donna chuckled with the good nature the joke was intended. "That I do. Twelve years now."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The official whistled. "You know you get less than that for murder, at least here, madam?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Donna laughed again. "I know. I've checked."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Travis's head snapped around to look at his wife. She grinned and slapped his arm. "Not really, you goof."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The official stamped her passport and returned it. "Young man," he said to Tristan. "If you please?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan gave him the passport. He held his breath./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Tristan Camden," read the official. He looked up at the Needhams. "Your adopted son, I take it?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That's correct," said Travis./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I'm sorry to be a nuisance, but would you happen to have the adoption document with you? I should verify." The man actually seemed concerned about inconveniencing them. "For the boy's safety. I hope you understand. There are strange things going on these days."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, no, I understand," said Travis, while Donna reached into her shoulder bag. She extracted a manilla folder and opened it. Flipping through a few pages, she pulled a stapled multi-page document from it and gave it over to the official./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Thank you, madam," he said. The man's eyes then began to scan the pages carefully, occasionally referring to the passport, as well. On a few occasions, his gaze flickered to Tristan's face, comparing it to the photograph. He flipped through a few more pages then, apparently satisfied, repositioned all the pages and stamped the passport./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Enjoy your stay, Tristan," he said with a smile. There's many a sight to see in merry old England. Don't let your parents keep you cooped up in the hotel the whole trip."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan grinned as he accepted the passport. "Don't worry, I won't. Have a nice day, sir."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""And you, as well, young man."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"xxxxxxxxxx/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Wow!" exclaimed Donna as they exited customs with their luggage. "That was easier than I thought it would be."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah," said Tristan. "For a moment, I thought he was going to pick up his phone and call to confirm the tracking number on top of the adoption order. He would have had to have been routed to the U.S. and then have to be connected to the Clearwater court archives. It would have worked out, but it would have slowed us down for a good while. I barely breathed the whole time."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You did great work back in Florida," Travis said, slapping him on the back, "and it paid off here."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I guess I won't need any of these anymore." Donna handed Tristan the folder full of documentation. You might need some it later on, though."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan took it and tucked it into his shoulder bag. "Yeah, you never know."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa walked up behind them, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her. "Are you ready to go?" she queried./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Do you mind if we walk with you to the park?" asked Travis. "We'd like to spend a little more time with Tristan before we go."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I don't mind," said Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Neither do I," confirmed Lisa. "Come on. It's not far at all." They started walking northeast along the High Street. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""When is your company meeting?" asked Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""On the twentieth in London. Donna and I are going there this morning. We'll play tourist for two days, go to our meeting, and then fly home."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""So Tristan was just a tag-along on your cruise?" Lisa inquired./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes," answered Donna. "He needed adults to buy the tickets and help him get through customs. We've done that. He doesn't need us anymore." The sadness in her voice was plain. Tristan put an arm around her waist as they walked. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I meant what I said on the ship," reminded Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I know. It's just hard to leave you. I don't want to leave you. I know it's only been two weeks, but it's already like you are our son." Tristan squeezed her waist./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You'll be a mom one day, Donna," Tristan predicted. "And a great one."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They turned right onto Town Quay and kept walking. "And part of me doesn't want to leave you two, either. But I have to."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I know, dear. I'm just venting, I suppose."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""It's okay," assured Tristan. Travis came alongside them and put his hand on the boy's other shoulder. Reciprocating, Tristan put an arm around his waist, as well./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They rounding a curve and could see trees about one hundred meters ahead of them. "Is that the park?" asked Donna./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa nodded. "Yes. I'm meeting my boyfriend at the northwest entrance so we're going to turn left onto Orchard Place. That's the crossroads coming up. The entrance will be about two hundred meters from there."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You weren't kidding about it being close," commented Travis./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Nope. This is Queen's Park. It's tiny, but it's a nice little place."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They walked the rest of the way to the crossroad in silence. Tristan stopped when he got there. Taking his arm from around Donna's waist, he pointed./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Lisa."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes?" She stopped and turned to face him./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That break in the trees there. It goes to the park, too, right?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah, it does. Why?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Would you mind if I walk alone with Travis and Donna for a few minutes? Then I'd like to do something I haven't done for a long time."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""What's that, little man?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Climb a tree and just think for a little while."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa grinned. "I'm certainly not going to refuse you that little luxury. I'll tell you what. My boyfriend and I will be sitting on one of the benches next to the General Gordon Memorial. You really can't miss it. It's a big column with a cross atop it on a mound in the center of the park. You'll see the two of us sitting together. Just come over to us whenever you're ready."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Okay. Thank you."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""See you soon." She turned and kept walking./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""What was that?" asked Donna./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Exactly what I said," replied Tristan, putting his arm around her again. "I thought we should have a few minutes to ourselves walking peacefully through the trees. I figured it would be a pleasant way to add to my thank you, too."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Travis chuckled. "Donna was right. You are a little tease."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Admit it. This is nice."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes. Yes, it is. I'll give you that, "Little Man."" He squeezed Tristan's shoulder./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, don't you start calling me that, too." Tristan's words were of protest but his expression said otherwise./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""What," said Donna. "Only pretty long-haired girls can call that?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan changed his expression to a playful sulk. "Maybe." He then changed it to a grin and stuck out his tongue, turning his head so they both could see it. They shared a laugh as Tristan squeezed them closer./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The walk ended too quickly. The trees which had enclosed both sides of the paved walkway parted to reveal almost the entirety of the park. Tristan dropped his arms reluctantly and faced the Needhams./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""So this is goodbye," said Travis./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah," confirmed Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Travis extended his hand./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, no," protested Tristan, embracing him./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oof. Didn't we do this once already," said Travis, grinning and rustling the boy's hair./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Once more never hurts."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Hah. You are right."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan released him and turned toward Donna. Her voice was soft as she fought to keep back her tears./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I'm going to miss you, Tristan."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I'm going to miss you, too," he returned, stepping into her open arms./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"He stepped back from her, wiping his eyes. Travis put an arm around her and she put her head on his shoulder. Tristan lifted a hand and waved./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Bye. And thank you so much."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Bye, Tristan. Take care," said Travis. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"With a gentle tug on his wife's shoulder, the Needhams slowly turned and began the trek back down the path. Tristan stood and watched as they left, a small piece of his heart leaving with them. He sniffed once and forced himself not to look away until they were out of sight./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"xxxxxxxxxx/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"I think I found the biggest tree in the park. It's even kind of bluish in its leaf color. I didn't know planetrees could be blue. How cool./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan lounged in the lower branches of the largest tree in Queen's park. It wasn't hard to find. It was actually the second tree he saw after coming out of the tree-lined walkway with the Needhams. Climbing it had been a challenge, but an enjoyable one. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"From his position, he had a commanding view of the rest of the park. The column Lisa had mentioned could be seen even from the ground. He could see her sitting with her boyfriend on a park bench fifty meters across the park. He took a moment to study the new arrival. The boyfriend was another young looking, probably teenaged, Immortal. Tristan guessed he was around the age of thirteen or fourteen. He was shorter than Lisa by about seven centimeters or so. The boy had black hair down to his ears. Tristan thought he looked like a swimmer or a long distance runner./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The new boy had an arm draped languidly around Lisa's shoulder as if it naturally belonged there. His and Lisa's postures were so relaxed that Tristan would have guessed they had known each other for many years. /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Maybe they have./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" They chatted and laughed together and looked very much the happy teenage couple. At one point, the boy leaned in and kissed Lisa deeply on the lips. Tristan turned away to allow them a semblance of privacy for that personal moment./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Movement at the entrance he and the Needhams had used caught Tristan's eye. He turned in that direction. About thirty meters away, two men in street clothes were entering the park, their heads swiveling around, looking for others, he figured. Both of them had dark skin and black beards. One man looked at his watch and spoke to the other./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""'Ayn tsharlz wadam?"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" (Where are Charles and Adam?)/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Sayakunun huna."/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" (They will be here.)/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""La 'uhibu alaintizar."/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" (I don't like waiting.)/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Kun hadyaan ya Hakimun."/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" (Be quiet, Hakim.)/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The first man, the one who had looked at his watch, grumbled something and stuck his hands in his pockets after the apparent reprimand from his partner. Tristan could hear them clearly from where he was perched but could not understand the language. This only increased his curiosity./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Since the first man had looked at his watch, Tristan did the same. 09:33. He shifted on his branch. As he did, his hand brushed against his jeans pocket. He dug into it and withdrew his cell phone. He had been carrying it ever since he had left Alabama. He wondered if it even had a charge left in it. He flipped it open and hit the power button. To his amazement, it switched on./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan watched the two dark-skinned men. Their impatience was obvious. After about ten minutes, one of them pointed down the path and said something. Tristan looked down the path, too. He squinted. At first, he only saw shadows, but finally the images cleared into the forms of another dark-skinned man with a black beard dressed in a nice suit and a white man with long blond hair and a scraggly beard. It was the white man that made the Tristan decide to act. He scrolled through the menu of his phone and hit the audio recorder application. Pressing 'Record,' he pointed the phone at the men./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The second man from the first group smiled and pressed his palms together./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Alsalam ealaykum./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"" He ignored the caucasian man completely. The caucasian did not seem surprised by this and just stood silently./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Walakum alsalam,"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" said the third man, making the same gesture and returning the smile./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""'Ant matakhir," /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"complained the man with the watch./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Nahn huna," grunted the caucasian./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Ma hi khatatuk?" /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"asked the second man./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The first man slipped his hands into his pockets casually and began to pace. /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Albasat. Qisfahum. Miayat minhum."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Miaya?"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" queried the second man, his eyes wide./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Na'am,"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" said the third man, his voice deadpan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Maty?"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" This came from the first man, the one with the watch./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Aleam alqadim," answered the third man, kicking some grass with his toe./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The second man stroked his chin and then replied, /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Sanabda fi jame alshhda'."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"For half a minute, no one spoke. The third man just looked up at the sky, watching the clouds as they moved. At last, he spoke. /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Thuma shay' 'akbar."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""'Akbar?"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" asked the first man./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Na'am," said the third man, still eyeing the clouds./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Ma hdha?"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" asked the second man./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Antazara,"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" interjected the caucasian sharply./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" "Nazratu. Hunak."/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;" He pointed. The men's faces turned in the direction of his arm. Directly at the spot where Tristan was nestled on his branch./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan glanced down. He was about twenty meters from the ground. The men were thirty meters aways. Snapping his phone shut, Tristan sat up and let himself slip from the branch. When his ankles hit the ground, he let himself roll to the side just like Master Sergeant Woodham had taught him. He went from his ankles to his calves, then thighs, buttocks, latissimus, then rolled to his feet. His shoulder bag flailed out behind him and Tristan silently thanked God for that small blessing of one less possible injury. He was running immediately. He tucked the phone in his pocket as the ran./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan's eyes scanned the park for the bench where Lisa and her boyfriend sat. To his relief, their gazes were already focused his way. They were already beginning to stand. He wanted to look behind him but the curses and footfalls he heard were enough to tell him the four men were not far behind him. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa and her boyfriend were not the only ones who had noticed the commotion. A few of the other scant visitors had been disturbed by the sight of four men chasing a scared-looking boy across the park. Three people had cell phones to their ears, 999 already dialed-in; while two braver souls - one of them an off-duty Hampshire County constable - even moved in to interfere with the pursuers./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The ringing of bells in Tristan's head announced other Immortals in the area. /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Of course, it's Lisa and her boyfriend. /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Then the clanging began anew as he neared the teens. The look on their faces spoke the worst./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa's boyfriend looked behind and shouted, "Follow me." To Lisa, he said, "Leave that," pointing at her suitcase. She bent and unclipped a small bag from the case. They moved alongside the bench and waited for Tristan to meet them. When he was close, the boyfriend ran for the dense treeline ahead of them. They skirted a large tree and were at the line of trees after running only twenty meters. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They crashed into the woods, running around planetrees as fast as possible. The trees slowed their progress somewhat but the boyfriend seemed to find the easiest path naturally. In ten meters, they came upon a paved walked with overhanging trees. The boyfriend never slowed. He continued across into into the other treeline. Again, the easiest path opened immediately before him. In another five meters, they broke free of the trees and found themselves facing the backs of several buildings./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Come on," said the boyfriend, his breathing hardly elevated as he trotted alongside the wall of one of the buildings. Reaching the corner, he turned into the alley and disappeared. Lisa and then Tristan followed him. They emerged in a courtyard between four buildings. With only the slightest rotation of his head to get his bearings, the boyfriend turned to his right and began running again. The others tried to keep up. They slipped into another alley. Before it ended, another alley opened up on their left and the boyfriend turned into it. The others followed./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The boyfriend finally came to a stop at the end of that alley when it opened up onto a street. Lisa and Tristan walked the last few steps up to him, panting as they tried to catch their breaths./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Remember, Johnny," gasped Lisa. "Some of us don't run twenty Ks for fun. Where are we?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""We're on Oxford Street. Are they behind us?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan looked. "I don't see them."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Okay, good. There's a taxi." He waved his hand and the vehicle pulled alongside them. The children piled into the back./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The driver turned to his left and looked over the back at his passengers. "You kids look like ya just ran a race. Did ya win?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes," said Lisa. "The prize is we get to ride the rest of the way."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Okay, where are you goin'?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""75 Kingsgate Street, Winchester, please," she answered with a smile./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""On the way, miss." The driver touched his hat and they were off./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I…they…" stammered Tristan, his whole body shaking./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa, who sat in the middle, placed a hand on his knee. "Not now, dear. Wait until we get there. About twenty minutes. Try to relax." She looked at her boyfriend. He was staring out the window at the passing scenery./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You're thinking something," she said. "What is it?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I think I need to make a phone call when we get to Winchester."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Your uncle?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa took a deep breath. Tristan saw her expression as she let it out. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She's worried. Is calling his uncle that bad a thing? What is going on? I'm so confused./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"xxxxxxxxxx/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The driver stopped in front of a brick-faced building. The double-glass doors read "Wine Spirits." The sign above the door read "The Wykeham Arms." Tristan was about to ask if he might have made a mistake by coming to a restaurant, but he saw Lisa paying him and her boyfriend exiting the taxi. He opened the door on his side and stepped out, walking around to the other side of the vehicle./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Are we at the right place?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa nodded. "Let's get up to the room," her boyfriend recommended, "then we can discuss what just happened." As he opened the door for them, he appended, "And I can make that call."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Thank you, dear," said Lisa as she entered. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Once they were inside, they waited for the boyfriend to take the lead. He walked quickly, leading them to the stairwell. He took them at a moderate pace although it was apparent to both of the others he wanted to go faster. He stood at the top of the landing waiting for them./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa 'tut-tutted' him, but with a smile on her face. "Patience, my dear. We'll get there."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah, I know," he replied. "I just don't like waiting."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They continued to the third floor. The dark-haired boy fished a key from his pocket and opened a door. He let both of the others enter first and then followed them inside. He shut the door behind him and then sighed with relief./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Finally," he said./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They were inside a small suite, in the living room area. Lisa sat on the couch. Tristan sat next to her. The other boy walked over to an overstuffed chair and crashed into it with obvious relief. He eyed Tristan with interest./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""So, what's your story, little bit?" he asked./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""My name's Tristan." There was no offense in the statement, only fact./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The other boy grinned and slowly stood. He approached Tristan, his hand outstretched. "I'm sorry. We should start with introductions, shouldn't we? I'm Jonathan Fairbanks. You can call me Johnny."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan stood himself and took the boy's hand, shaking firmly. He couldn't prevent his own slightly slack jaw, though. He closed it after a second and stammered, "Jon… Jonathan Fairbanks? Really? The friend of David Ashton?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The boy grinned again. "Oh? You've heard of me?" He was clearly intrigued now./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Lisa stood up beside Tristan. "Before you get too distracted, my little friend, I should come clean." Tristan turned to her. Her expression was slightly apologetic. "My name isn't Lisa. It's Alyssa. Alyssa Cordeiro. Everything else I said about myself is true, just the name was different. For traveling purposes, I'm sure you understand."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan nodded, though his eyes showed he was in a daze. Johnny returned to his chair. Tristan and Alyssa sat, as well./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""So how did you hear my name? And David's?" asked Johnny./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan blinked, trying to bring himself back to reality. "Uhm, I was walking through Florida and noticed a guy following me. I ambushed him and drugged him and got him to tell me everything he knew. He was a Watcher. He told me about you and Ashton and the Immortal-Watcher war a few years ago and the PMC Ashton runs now and even that you went to Eton until a year ago."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Fairbanks smirked. "Oh, yes. That." Alyssa just laughed./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan looked at her. "What?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Did your Watcher friend say why Johnny had to go to Eton?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"""Had to go?" No. Why?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""He lost a bet."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Alyssa," protested Johnny./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, come on, Johnny. We're all friends here."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""We just met him."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You just met him. He's a good boy. Tell him."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny let out an exasperated sigh and leaned back in his chair. "David made a bet with me that I couldn't seduce a woman in a bar within ten minutes. He said if I could, he'd take me to Japan for a year for a fun trip. I really wanted to go. The flip side was if I couldn't, I had to do my best to get into Eton College, the most prestigious public school - that's private school for you Americans - in the country. And I couldn't get kicked out for two years. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""What he didn't tell me was that woman was a friend of his and knew about the bet. It was a setup. That bugger. I didn't have a chance in hell. All I got out of her was a "You're so cute" and that was it. She left me sitting there and David was over at the other table with that damn grin on his face."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. "What he doesn't know, or maybe he does, I don't care, is I got her a year later. I ran into her in London and twenty minutes later, the deal was done."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, Johnny," cried Alyssa, tossing a couch pillow at him. "You and your constant skirt chasing."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny just grinned as he caught the pillow and returned it in an underhanded throw. "Hey, I'm not the one who gets in trouble if we get caught in the act. She is. She knew the risks and went into it all happily. We both left her house the next morning quite happily, as well." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alyssa tossed the pillow again, still laughing. "You're just a little ball of hormones."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""And you love me for it," he countered./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes, I do, but you're still incorrigible."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny looked at Tristan again. "That was a great PLF from that tree, by the way." A PLF, or parachute landing fall, is the way paratroopers are trained to land in order to prevent or reduce injury during parachute drops./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan grinned. "You saw that?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah, Alyssa had just said she'd seen you go up that tree and we happened to look that way and then, woop, we see you drop out. Where'd you learn that?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""A friend in the States. He said it was a good way to prevent injury from moderate height."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Did it work?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Except for banging my back against a rock at the last moment, yeah, it worked perfectly."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny thought for a moment. "SF or para?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"It was Tristan's turn to think. Johnny's accent wasn't too jarring to his ears and he thought he knew what the word 'para' meant, but he wasn't sure. Then it clicked in his mind. Paratrooper./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""SF," Tristan responded. "He was a three-tour Special Forces soldier. I lived with him for several years and learned lots of cool stuff from him."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny's grin from earlier spread wider across his face. "Oh, don't let him meet David, then. They'd talk for hours. We'd never get them to shut up."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan was curious. "David Ashton was in Vietnam?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, yeah. He was Special Forces, too. He used a different name back then, though. Benjamin Asher, I think, it was."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Asher?" Tristan nearly shouted, sitting straight up on the couch./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Uhm, yeah, what of it?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That was the name of Matt's, uhm, the soldier I mentioned, that was his team leader's name. Benjamin Asher. He was always telling me stories about that man."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny's eyes widened. "Oh, wow. Really? What kind of stories?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Some were just 'the captain said' kind of stories. You know, not that interesting. Once he really got to know me and what I was, he started telling me some of the other, darker stuff. Like when their camp got overrun by regulars, everyone was either dead or wounded, and Captain Asher broke the attack himself with a rifle and a sword. When I was going through Florida, I met another man who was on his team and this guy said something that Matt liked to tell me he always said." Tristan lowered his voice slightly when he said the next part. "Sweat now or bleed later, gentlemen."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Both Johnny and Alyssa looked at each other with open mouths before collapsing in their seats with laughter. After several seconds, Johnny stopped holding his abdomen and used the arms of his chair to push himself back up, still chuckling. He put his elbows on his knees and his palms to his tear-filled eyes. When he finally looked back at Tristan, grinning, he took a breath, and said, "Tristan, my boy, he still says that." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan joined in the laughter. When the noise abated, Johnny sat up again, his face turning serious. He looked at Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I'd love to sit here and tell funny stories for the rest of the day, Tristan, but we can't. I need to know why Charles Steyn was chasing you."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Who?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alyssa reached over and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He was probably the blond man." She looked at Johnny who nodded. "The other Immortal who was chasing you, the man in the suit, was Aadam el-Farid."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Farid?" blurted Johnny. "Oh, man, David's going to want to know about this no matter what we learn from Tristan. Anyway, please continue."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Well," said Tristan, trying not to sound too nervous. "I was just relaxing and thinking in the tree when the first two men showed up. They started talking. I couldn't understand what they were saying but it sounded like they first one was complaining. Since he looked at his watch, I guess it was about the other two guys being late./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I shifted around a little on the branch, just curious, to listen, not that it would matter, since I couldn't understand, but the cadence of the language was interesting. My hand touched my pocket and I remembered I had my phone. I hadn't thought of it for like a month. I messed around with it, not even sure it would start, but it did./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""The other two men arrived a few minutes later. I thought it was strange that there was a blond man there. I'm not sure why. I just had the thought that his being there was weird. I don't even know why I hit 'Record' but I did."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You recorded their conversation?" interrupted Alyssa./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I tried anyway. I don't know how well it came out from that distance."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Let's hear it," said Johnny. It was more a command than a statement./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan fished the phone from his pocket and clicked through the menu. "Here it is," he said. He was about to start playing the file when Alyssa stopped him. When he looked up, he saw that Johnny had stood and gone across the room to the desk. He came back with a notepad and pen./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""How long's it been since you wrote in Arabic, Johnny?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""A long time. Probably two hundred years."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Would you like for me to do it?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Please."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""How do you know it's Arabic?" asked Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Farid and two other Arab men were there," answered Alyssa as she knelt by the coffee table. "It's a fair guess." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan and Johnny knelt by the table, as well. Tristan turned the volume up, hit 'Play' and placed the phone in the center of the table. There was a lot of scratchy background noise, but the voices of the men could be clearly heard. Alyssa didn't try to transcribe anything the first time; she just listened. Tristan watched the expressions of the other two as the conversation replayed. It told him more than he believed he wanted to know. The two teenaged Immortals eyed each other with disbelief as the playback ended./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Oh, shit," whispered Johnny./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""What?" asked Tristan./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Not yet," he replied, looking at Alyssa. "Are you ready?" She nodded. "Play it again."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alyssa's pen moved quickly across the pad in what, to Tristan's eye, looked like nothing more than squiggly lines and in the wrong direction, right to left. She asked for one more playback to be sure she had not missed anything, made two corrections, and was satisfied./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Okay," she breathed softly. "Give me a moment. I'll transliterate the Arabic and give you the English translation, too." She looked at Johnny. "You were right. David is certainly going to want to know about this morning. He'll probably want that recording, too."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny turned to Tristan. "Do you mind giving up your phone?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan shrugged. "Sure. I don't even have a calling plan. Sometimes I play games on it. Other than that, it's just for show. Are we finished with this?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alyssa nodded. "Yeah, we're done," confirmed Johnny. Tristan shut down the phone and set it on the table./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Okay, I'm done," said Alyssa. She looked up at Tristan. "Would you like to know what those men were saying?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Shall I read it to you or would you like to read it?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan reached for the pad. She gave it to him. He read it once and looked back at her. "They really said this?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes," she verified./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Okay, I want to remember this but I'm kind of weird," said Tristan. I remember things better when I hear them so I'm going to read it aloud. Is that okay?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The others nodded./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I hope I don't butcher the Arabic too much."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I'm sure you'll do fine," assure Alyssa./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Tristan began to read./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Alsalam ealaykum.(Peace be unto you.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Walakum alsalam.(And to you, peace.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""'Ant matakhir. (You're late.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Nahn huna. (We're here.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Ma hi khatatuk? (What is your plan?)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Albasat. Qisfahum. Miayat minhum. (The buses. Bomb them. One hundred of them.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Miaya? (One hundred?)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Na'am. (Yes.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Maty? (When?)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Aleam alqadim. (Next year.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Sanabda fi jame alshhda'. (We will start gathering the martyrs.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Thuma shay' 'akbar. (And then something larger.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""'Akbar? (Larger?)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal;  
text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Na'am. (Yes.)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Ma hdha? (What is it?)/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Antazara. Nazratu. Hunak. (Wait. Look. There.)"/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /br /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Do you remember who said what?" asked Johnny./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yeah, it was mostly the guy in the suit and one of the guys that showed up originally. The other two didn't say much."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna make that call now." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny walked into the bedroom and sat at the head of the bed. He dialed a number from memory. It rang once then there was a click as it was rerouted. Two more rings./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Imports," answered a male voice./spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Hello, Mister Wolcott," said Johnny. "This is Daniel Clifton. I saw Mister Stone meeting with his Saudi friends at the park today. They had a very interesting conversation. I'll tell you more when I see you."/spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"br /spanspan style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Understood. Thank you."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;"strong style="font-weight: normal;" /strong/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Johnny rang off. Staring at the wall, he tapped his foot. He picked up the phone again and dialed the front desk. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="margin: 0pt 0px; padding: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana; line-height: 1.2;" /p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: 'Courier New'; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Hello, this is Johnny Ashton, Mr. Ashton's nephew. He asked me to let you know a cousin of mine from the States will be staying here tonight while his parents are in London. Would you please add him to the register? Yes, we can bring his passport to you when we come down for lunch. Thank you."/span/p 


	14. The Time Was Right

"Somewhere along the line, things get chipped away  
This place keeps going down, gets a little worse every day  
I see hate and greed, this world¹s a messed up town  
Embrace the pain and see, by taking it back, you turn it around"

"You're Gonna Go Far, Kid" -The Offspring

17 May 2004  
Winchester, England

"What makes a boy who has never been outside of the southeastern United States suddenly decide to come to England?"

Johnny Fairbanks looked across the Wykeham Arms dining room table at Tristan. Alyssa, sitting next to their new arrival, responded for him. They sat in the back of the dining room. Johnny was on a cushioned bench seat with a cushioned back. Tristan and Alyssa sat on wooden chairs on the other side of the table.

"Can't we at least let our new playmate decide on a starter and tea before we fire more questions at him?"

"It's okay," replied Tristan. "But I have one, too. What's a starter? You said playmate so am I choosing something to start a game?"

Johnny chuckled. "Alyssa, you and I are making the same mistake. You reverted back to British English the moment you got off the ship and I never thought to change for Tristan's sake. We should be more considerate." He looked in Tristan's eyes. His accent became less distinct. "I'm sorry, Tristan. She means we should let you choose an appetizer and tea before we ask more questions. What? What's that expression mean?"

"Sorry," said Tristan. "It's just that when you changed the way you spoke, your accent sounded a lot like a friend I used to have. His accent was like that, you know, like a compilation of several languages. Kind of like Lisa's, I mean, Alyssa's, too."

A waiter came up and took their orders for appetizers and tea. Alyssa requested spring vegetable broth with focaccia bread and Lady Winchester tea; Johnny ordered cured sea trout, charred gherkin and sea vegetables with Earl Grey Supreme for himself; and Tristan asked for bar olives with Winchester Breakfast tea.

"What was your friend's name?" continued Johnny, after the waiter left.

"Oh, I doubt you would have known him. He didn't like his real Spanish name, but I'll give it to you anyway." He said the name. Johnny shook his head. "But the name he preferred to use was Penance Cameron."

Johnny's face lit up. "Penance? You're a friend of Penance? Why didn't you say so sooner?"

"You knew him?"

"Yeah, well, I met him once, back in 1962. We were only together for one day. It was a good, fun day, though."

"What happened?"

"I met him one morning in Dallas, Texas. He was just wandering around. He looked tired and hungry. He was suspicious of me at first, of course, but once I convinced him I didn't want to fight, he agreed to have breakfast with me. We went to a nearby diner and he ate like he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks."

"He probably hadn't," added Tristan.

"Maybe not," said Johnny. "We spent the rest of the day going around town, playing games, eating junk food, having fun, just being kids. He told me a little bit about his life, not much. I said that all of us child Immortals spent some part of our lives on the streets at some point, but it didn't have to be permanent like it seemed to be for him. I offered to set him up with a friend of mine, Vivia Wales, who was in New York at the time. She could take care of him and improve his training.

"For a moment, I thought he was interested. He asked me if I knew what "the remnant of Caphtor" meant. He said he heard it in a dream. I said I didn't know. Later on that day, I guess it was early evening, he said he wasn't interested and was going to continue on his way. I asked if I could at least fill up his backpack with food and give him what money I had left. He agreed to that. I did it, gave him a goodbye hug, and wished him good luck. I never saw him again."

Tristan's face fell. "I wish he had accepted your offer."

"Why is that, dear?" asked Alyssa.

"He died twenty years ago in New Jersey. He might still be alive if he had gone to see Johnny's friend."

Johnny slumped. Alyssa put an arm around Tristan and squeezed. "I'm sorry, little one. It's never easy to lose a friend."

Tristan nodded slowly. "He heard that phrase, "the remnant of Caphtor," again the night I became Immortal. He told me he had heard it once before but had ignored it. He never told me the story behind it, though. Thank you for telling me."

"Did he ever figure out what it meant?" Alyssa asked.

"No, but Jack, the Watcher I told you about, and Nancy, a pastor who helped me find the Needhams, the people who accompanied me here, did."

"What is it?" Johnny inquired.

Tristan pointed at Johnny. "Your friend, David Ashton. He's the last remaining Caphtorite, the last Minoan."

Johnny slapped his forehead with his palm. "Fuck me, why didn't I think of that?"

"What would the brigadier say if he heard you talking like that, Johnny?"

The three youngsters looked up to see a craggy-faced man with close cropped red hair a few paces away from them. Even in civilian clothes, everything about the man rang soldier. Johnny perked up again.

"Hi, Sandy."

The man slid onto the bench next to Johnny. He sat next to him with that slightly-too-close manner of either a pervert or a combat arms soldier who has always been in close proximity to others and no longer notices. If one were to ask him which he happened to be, Sandy Traynor would have simply replied, "Guilty." Regardless, Johnny moved a little closer and lightly bumped his head against Traynor's arm, eliciting a wry grin.

"I'm told you kids have something for me," said Traynor.

"Yes, we do," replied Alyssa, producing her notes from earlier. "Tristan?"

Tristan pulled the phone from his pocket and slid it across the table. Alyssa elucidated. "These pages are a transcription of the audio file Tristan recorded on this phone. I think "the brigadier," as you say, will find it very interesting."

Traynor took the lot and pocketed it all. "Thank you, miss."

"Stay for lunch, Sandy?" asked Johnny.

"Oh, no," he replied, shaking his head. "I'd love to, but I've got to get back. I was just passing through and got the word to stop by and pick this up. Besides, you know me. I'd have eight or ten pints and then I'd not be fit to drive. Well, I could do it, but you know how the legal types can be and all."

Johnny grinned. "Oh, yeah. Be safe out there, Sandy."

Standing, Traynor dashed off a mock salute and, with a "Roger that," was gone. Johnny glanced at Tristan, still grinning.

"There you have it, Tristan. You've just had your first brush with covert operations."

Tristan grinned, too. "Hardly covert with that salute, isn't it?"

Johnny waved that off. "That's just Sandy being Sandy. I bet no one even noted that."

"I wonder what will happen once David's people hear that recording." Alyssa's voice was soft, but pensive.

"I don't know," said Johnny, "but knowing David and his guys, a whole lot of people are going to regret that such a recording was ever made." He looked back at Tristan. He pointed at Tristan playfully. "Tristan, my lad, you may have just started a war."

"Me?" Tristan's eyes grew huge with fright.

"Oh, don't scare him, Johnny." Alyssa put her arm around him again. She pulled him closer so she would wrap her other arm around him, too. "Johnny's being overdramatic. There's not going to be a war in England."

The playfulness returned to Johnny's face. "Now I'm a bit jealous, too. Alyssa gives great hugs."

"Yes, she does," said Tristan, snuggling himself into a more comfortable position. "Can I keep her?"

"You'll have to ask her that one, laddy. She declares ownership of me, and probably you now, more than we ever could of her. She'd kick my ass if I said she was mine."

"And a cute little ass it is, too," said Alyssa with a kissing gesture of her lips.

"Thanks. It takes a lot of running and swimming to get glutes like these."

"And other exercises," Alyssa added. Johnny just grinned.

Alyssa looked down at Tristan and squeezed him again. "I think I just have a weakness for big, brown, puppy dog eyes, too. Look at both of you. You both have them."

"If Tristan's not careful, he's going to doze off where he is. He looks very comfortable there on your chest."

"I am. A nap wouldn't be a bad thing, either."

"After lunch. The food here is too good to miss. Ah, hah, as if on cue, here it is."

The waiter and an assistant appeared with the starters and tea. The food was quickly distributed and the assistant walked away. The waiter then took their orders for the main course. Alyssa took the vegetarian route by ordering roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, buttered kale, honey roast parsnips and carrots, butternut squash puree, cauliflower cheese, Butternut squash, and feta Wellington. Tristan decided upon the Chalcroft Farm beef burger and triple cooked chips and Johnny opted for the South Coast rack of lamb with pine nut pesto crust, Jersey Royal potatoes, minted peas, and anchovy and caper butter.

"Now we're back to my original question," said Johnny, sipping his tea. "What made you decide to come to England, welcome friend of Penance that you are?"

Tristan, who had grudging sat up from Alyssa's embrace when the waiters had arrived, blushed slightly and looked down at his olive plate.

"You're not going to believe me, I think," he answered, spinning his teacup with a finger. "I'm not even sure I believe it myself."

"Try me. I've believed a lot of strange things. Hell, I even believe Alyssa loves me."

"Ah!" she gasped, kicking him under the table. "I do love you, you oaf."

"You can tell by the sharp kick in the shin and the surging pain from it."

"Although I am developing quite strong feelings for Tristan, too," she added. She leaned over and placed her head on his slim shoulder briefly, just long enough to produce a satisfied smile on the boy's face.

"Sorry, we're digressing again. What would I not believe, Tristan?"

"That I came here looking for David Ashton. I was hoping he could train me. That was the one thing Penance regretted, that he really didn't teach me anything about survival as an Immortal. He thought he was kind of a failure in that regard. The unbelievable part is I just happened to bump into the two people who could take me to him."

Tristan told them about his trek from Alabama to Clearwater all the way to the beginning of the transatlantic Cruise. He paused only for the arrival of the main course. Johnny asked him about his first death and the reference to the "remnant of Caphtor." Tristan told him about that event, as well.

Johnny shrugged at the end of the stories. "Despite eight hundred years of good and bad, I still believe in God. If you don't mind a little of my opinion." Tristan shook his head. "This might sound a bit crass, but I think, when Penance turned down the offer of the "remnant of Caphtor," and that's what I think the phrase was, a divine offer of guidance toward friendship and training from David Ashton and his friends, when he turned down the offer, he lost the right to claim it forever. When he heard those words again ten years later, that offer was for you." Johnny pointed at Tristan.

"It may have taken thirty years to figure out what the riddle meant, but I think Penance's mission was to be your friend and tell you those words. What I knew of him and what you have told me, he was a great friend and, well, here you sit. He succeeded in his mission. I think you can take comfort in that. From the sound of your story, the time was just right for everything to fall into place and show you the right way. On that note, by the way, we're going to London tomorrow. David Ashton is going to be there the next day. You're going to meet him."

Tristan almost dropped his fork. "Meet him? Already? I…I don't think I'm ready to do that."

Alyssa laughed. "Trust me, little one. No one is ready to meet David Ashton when he's in full Ashton mode. Once he sees what you have, he just might be."

Johnny sat back against the cushioned back of his bench, thinking. "I think I can calm him down a little. I know how he thinks. Don't worry. He won't be too overbearing when he meets you."

"Do you think he would be willing to train me? I think I stand a much better chance of staying alive if he does."

Johnny thought some more. "I think he would. If he doesn't, he would set you up with people who would. I would, at least. I can think of a few others, too. He's got some great people at Hereford who do nothing but teach. Some of them aren't Immortal, but they have great skills to pass on. He'll size you up and figure out what's best. That's what he does."

"And there are some others you should meet, too, if he brings you into the family," said Alyssa.

"That's a good word for it," added Johnny. "Family."

"Wait until you meet his kids, Marc and Tally. They're adorable."

"Tally?" asked Tristan.

"Yes," said Alyssa. "Pronounced like Molly but with a 'T.'" She's his adopted daughter. She's eight years old and absolutely beautiful. And Marc, oh, he's a little puppy dog. He's seven and loves everyone. He's going to adore you. You'll be just like a big brother."

Johnny smirked. "Whenever I'm around, he follows me around everywhere. Now he's going to do that to you. He's going to be your little shadow."

"Uhm…" was all Tristan could say.

"Oh, don't worry about it," assured Johnny. "They're great kids. Didn't you have brothers and sisters when you were growing up?"

"No, I was an only child."

"Oh, then this will be a new experience for you. Well, I know you'll like these two. They really grow on you. They've even got big, bad David Ashton wrapped around their fingers. It's really funny to see it."

Alyssa giggled. "Yes, it is. He's a rough, tough officer around his men, but with them, he's "Daddy." It's so cute. He's a completely different person around them."

Johnny grinned to himself. "I know that David quite well, too. He does have a soft side, an inner child. He lets it out sometimes when he's around other children. Or child Immortals. Sometimes you just have to play and he can be quite fun when he does it.

"Back to training for a second, my friend, Darren Dublin, could teach you some great stuff, too."

"Oh, my," exclaimed Alyssa, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Darren's as much of a clown as you are."

Johnny put on his best grin. "Admit it. You love him, too. He's a great guy."

Alyssa put her chin on a palm. "He does have a certain charm, yes." She blinked and sat up straighter. "Just keep that red-haired woman of his away from our Tristan. She's a bad influence."

"Siobhan? I don't even know if she's in the country." Johnny laughed. "David doesn't much like her, either. He tolerates her, but he doesn't like her. I'd say the same for her."

Tristan smirked on his side of the table at that comment. "From what I heard about the war, I guess that makes sense."

Johnny looked over at Tristan. "I didn't see them at that time. I was involved in other parts of it, but I saw how they interacted afterward." He grinned again. "They should either kill each other or have a night of wild sex. Either one of those would cool the fire between them, I think."

"She's not his type," countered Alyssa.

"He likes strong women," stated Johnny.

"Yes, but not psychopathic, murdering bitches like her."

"Uhm," Tristan said with a nervous tone in his voice. "I'm sorry to interrupt. Is there a bookstore in this town? I'd like to take a shower and curl up with a book after this meal, but I need a book to do that."

"Yeah," answered Johnny. "Sorry about the spat. There's the Winchester Bookstore about ten minutes from here if you're walking."

"I'd like to walk. This was a great meal. A little movement afterward would be wonderful."

"Okay, grab a notepad from the front desk and I'll write down the directions. Did you get some money exchanged when you came through customs?"

"Yeah, I have about £500."

Jonnny nodded. "We'll have to get some more eventually. That's quite sufficient for now unless you go wild at the book shop."

Tristan laughed. "I hope not since I have to carry them back. I'll be back with the pad."

He walked away leaving Johnny under the heat of Alyssa's glare. Johnny looked into her eyes and mouthed, "What?" but she didn't answer.

Tristan returned with the pad and a pen. Johnny hastily scratched out the directions. When he handed the pad back, he asked, "You're sure you're okay with walking there by yourself?"

"Yeah, those other guys aren't here, right?"

Johnny nodded. "Right."

"I should be fine, then."

"Just in case, take this. Sit down by me." Tristan did so. Johnny subtly reached under his shirt and undid his belt buckle. He reached behind his back and pulled from the small of his back until all of the loops were empty. He then pulled a sheathed Fairbairn–Sykes fighting knife from his pants. "Here," he said, passing it to Tristan. "The sheath has been reversed so you can attach it to your belt with it inside your pants for increased concealability."

"Thanks," said Tristan, loosening his own belt.

"Best to be prepared. That's a very light, double-sided blade. Not good for taking heads, but it will help you get out of scrapes. Hopefully, you won't need it and you can give it back in a few days."

"Now I just need to pay for lunch and I can go."

"Don't worry about it," said Johnny, waving his hand. "We'll charge it to the room. See you soon."

"Really? Thank you." Tristan stood, smiling, and trotted off.

"Have fun, dear," Alyssa called after him. When he was out of sight, she turned her gaze back to Johnny, the full burn of her emerald eyes upon him. "We need to talk."

xxxxxxxxxx

Back in their room, Alyssa spun on Johnny as soon as the door was closed.

"Johnny, how could you wish that harpy on your best friend?"

He took a step back. "Are we still on that?" he asked.

Alyssa crossed her arms and stared silently. "Hey," Johnny spread his arms wide. "I'm just saying that there's this tension between them and they need to do something about it. Kiss or kill."

"If you say these things about David, your best friend, what horrible things are you saying about me behind my back, also?"

"I'm not talking about you behind your back. It was just a joke, Alyssa. That's all."

"A joke about a rotten bitch who needs her head on a spike."

"See? What you're saying is exactly the same kind of tension that is between David and Siobhan. He harbors the same opinions you do. He just doesn't voice them."

"So are you now saying I should fuck her, too?"

His eyes twinkled and he leaned toward her. "Admit it, Alyssa. She's hot."

"Hmph, no, I won't."

"Come on. Say it," he coaxed.

"I will not."

"You have a thing for redhead girls. You've said so before." He let his next two words drag out. "Say it."

"Jonathan Fairbanks. As the Americans say it, you now have the right to remain silent and anything you say from now on will be held against you."

Johnny stood in front of her. He was silent. He crossed one arm in front of his body. He placed his elbow in the hand of that arm and brought his hand up to his chin, tapping his cheek slowly, his thumb on the other side of his face. His eyes never left hers. Glacially, he began to smile. His pose unchanged, he voiced his response to her.

"Your lips, your hips, and your breasts."

xxxxxxxxxx

Tristan stood in front of The Winchester Book Shop. He stared with dismay at the sign in the door. Closed for Construction.

"Rats," he muttered under his breath, kicking the curb.

"Why so down, little guy?" asked a passing teenaged girl.

Tristan turned to face her. He looked up into large blue eyes framed by long brown hair. She was very pretty. She stood astride a bicycle, one foot resting on the pavement (Tristan would have called it a sidewalk).

He answered her. "I was hoping to buy a book or two, but they're closed today." He pointed at the sign.

The girl giggled. "What's your name?"

"Tristan."

"Where are you from, Tristan?"

"Florida."

"I like the way you talk. I'm Maya."

Tristan grinned. "Hi, Maya."

"By the way, there's a Waterstones around the corner. I was on the way there myself. I need to pick up a book for uni there. Would you like a ride? It's not far."

"Sure." His grin widened.

"Hop on."

He climbed onto the seat behind her and put an arm around her waist. "I have a question. It might sound silly."

"What's that?"

"What's a uni? The last time I heard that it was short for unicorn."

Maya laughed as she pedaled away.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I never could stay angry at you, you little imp."

Johnny's head rested comfortably on the bed's pillows, his eyes gazing into Alyssa's. His fingers caressed her bare back as she lay atop him. When he spoke to her, it was with a little smile.

"That's why we're still together after so long."

"How long's it been now?"

"Uhm, let me see. David introduced us in 1929, I guess 1930 actually, so… this would be the seventy-fourth year."

"Oh, wow! We've been together, off and on, longer than many people have been alive. That's amazing."

"Yes, it is," he confirmed, giving her a quick kiss on the lips. "Weren't the two of you up to something in Chicago back then?"

Alyssa fluttered her eyes and grinned. "Oh, yes. We had a bit of a run-in with a few of Al Capone's people. David had to sort it all out. He never told you?"

"No," said Johnny, curiosity in his voice. "The most he ever said was there were "some issues" there and that was it."

"How does a man who seems more suited to the stock market and military takeovers become involved in bootlegging in the first place? I always thought it seemed a little out of character for him."

Johnny shrugged. "David has always been the type to seize an opportunity when he sees one, no matter what it is. If it's not something that's his area of expertise, he finds people who are experts at it."

"Like gangsters."

Johnny couldn't resist a chuckle. "Yes, like gangsters. Well, he saw this opportunity coming years in advance. Before World War One, even."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. He started making moves before the war and had things in place long before Prohibition ever passed. He just had to give the word and the liquor could start moving."

"You know more. Tell me." She shifted to the side and propped her head on an arm, her eyes still locked with his. "Go on. I'm waiting." She tickled his ribs under the blanket for emphasis.

"Okay, okay," giggled the boy. "Keep your shirt off. I'm getting to it."

xxxxxxxxxx

July 1918  
Craiglockhart War Hospital near Edinburgh, UK

The sound of small running feet coincided with the familiar sensations of nearby Immortals. Vivia Wales, clad in the uniform of a British nurse, turned to see an excited young boy scampering towards her, his face exuberant at the sight of her. A man of moderate height stood at the end of the long hallway, an expression of considerable amusement on his thin face. She was prepared for the boy's imminent crash into her, his arms wrapping around her with surprising strength for his apparent age. The boy's momentum propelled her back against the wall, nearly expelling the entire contents of her lungs in the process.

"Jonathan Christopher Fairbanks," she exclaimed, her eyes cast slightly downward to peer into the captivatingly dark orbs of her youthful assailant who was nearly equal to her diminutive height. "You nearly knocked me over, you little brat." Her attempt to maintain a stern demeanor in voice and stance failed utterly as the boy cracked one of his infamous smiles and hugged her a little tighter, his compact body still pinning her to the wall. His high-pitched chuckles cracked whatever resolve she had remaining; a grin of her own spread itself across her face.

"Would you rather I walk up and gently kiss your hand like you were some delicate piece of pottery or greet you like I would any other member of the family?" inquired Johnny in a carefully enunciated, and therefore completely sarcastic, manner. The boy Immortal stared imploringly at her, his features now that of a wondering child seeking the answer to life's most pressing questions.

Vivia knew the puppy dog look was simply the acting out of a part for her entertainment but still found herself contemplating the question he had posed. She noticed the fingers of one of her hands absentmindedly running themselves affectionately through the boy's black hair. "Well, since you put it that way, I guess I'd prefer this." Vivia then removed her hand from the youth's locks and cuffed him across the back of the head. "And I'm not delicate."

"Just as I thought." With another giggle and a quick squeeze, the boy released her and stepped back, his hands gesturing theatrically toward the man at the end of the hallway. "Vivia Wales, meet Darren Dublin. He's another friend of David's."

Vivia's gaze shifted from the boy - for, despite his seven hundred plus years of age, he still appeared to be no more than a lad of twelve or so by modern standards - and settled on the slender man who now approached her, his amusement still apparent by the upturned corners of his lips. He was short in stature, his wiry build reminding Vivia of a dancer. His black hair contrasted greatly with the bright hazel of his eyes, adding to his mischievous countenance. _What a perfect friend for Johnny_ , she thought observantly.

"The famous Darren Dublin," she quipped pleasantly, extending her hand to the man. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name Johnny is always tossing about."

If the offer of her hand was a surprise to Dublin, he did not show it. He shook it firmly, knowing instinctively she would do the same. He could neither stop nor did he try to hide the fact that his eyes were busy conducting a quick assessment of the female Immortal's form. The uniform she wore did nothing to diminish the fact that she possessed a rare beauty. He nodded approvingly and met her eyes. "And the same for you, my lady," he said, bowing with a flourish.

Vivia smirked. "Another showoff," she stated, humor still apparent in her voice.

"Of course," replied Dublin and Johnny in unison, before turning to each other and starting to giggle. Their mirth was cut short as the reason for their visit reentered their minds.

"How's David?" asked Johnny, his voice quiet now, the immensity of his concern evident in those two words. They stood silently for a moment, their moods abruptly sullen.

"What exactly happened to him?" queried Dublin. "All I know is two years ago he was on the front in France and then his letters suddenly stopped. Next I know, Johnny has sent me a note from London telling me to meet him here."

Vivia turned on her heel and, motioning for them to follow, began to walk down the hallway again. Her shoes echoed dully against the tiled floor as they approached a small waiting room. The three Immortals were its only occupants. They sat without prompting. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. _Dammit, he's my friend, too._

"He's been here since 1916," she began, her words now taking a detached tone. Despite this, her eyes spoke of the emotions fighting inside her. "He was captured during the battle at the Somme River. British soldiers found him regaining consciousness under a heap of German and English bodies on the third of June. He was wearing the uniform of a German major when they uncovered him. He was covered in blood from head to foot. He still had his pistol and a bayonet in his hands. Physically, of course, he wasn't hurt, but it seems that mentally, he'd succumbed to neurasthenia - shell shock - and was now in a state of both amnesia and near catatonia. The commander of the unit that took him prisoner found an envelope in his pocket. In it were orders from his higher headquarters promoting him to oberstleutnant - lieutenant colonel - only two days before. The new rank insignia were also in the envelope. He hadn't even had time to sew them onto his uniform. The battalion put under his command the same day as the promotion had ceased to exist during the battle. He was the only one who had not been killed or wounded."

She stood and walked across the room to a window overlooking the sea. When she resumed her story, it was almost in a whisper. "There has never been a war like this one. Thousands of men are dying every day over there for the same few meters of ground. They'll take a building, a barn, a field, and then lose it the next day, then the cycle repeats. Soldiers on both sides are sacrificing themselves over patches of ripped up fields and the survivors are not even able to justify their deaths. He was part of that kind of war for over two years.

"I've seen him lose men before. He's never taken it well, but before he could always attach a reason for their deaths, a justification. He couldn't do that this time, I suppose, not for the loss of his entire battalion. I think he believes he's failed his men. He led them into a battle where they all became casualties and then had nothing to show for it except his own captivity. It shattered him. He's been here ever since."

Vivia turned backed to face the dumbstruck Immortals seated before her. "For the first eight months, he could do not much more than sit in his bed and stare at the walls. I'd talk to him, call him by his name, his real one and the alias he was using. I'd use German, English, Latin, French; nothing worked. I asked for and was granted permission to work with him exclusively. He would never respond to me, though. It was like he didn't even know me."

Johnny cut in with a question. "How did you get through to him? Your last letter said he was getting better."

"Yes, he's been improving. I don't know if it was anything I was doing or not, but one day while I was talking to him about a friend of mine, a little boy in town, and mentioned that he reminded me a lot of you, Johnny, he reached out and took my hand. He didn't look at me; he just took my hand and squeezed it a bit, like he was acknowledging my presence but was afraid he'd break me. That's when I remembered his stories about helping you through your hard times when you were a new Immortal just by being there as a shoulder to cry on. I figured he'd helped a boy through troubles so perhaps a little boy could help him.

"I started to bring little Michael Jamison, that's the boy I mentioned, to the hospital and let him sit with David for an hour or two three nights a week. It worked great. Michael would sit or lie next to him on the bed, sometimes putting an arm around him or his head on David's shoulder, and tell him about his day at school or with his friends. After two months of this, David began to respond. Sometimes I'd find him with an arm around Michael or even holding his hand. Michael was thrilled at this. He was so excited he started coming here every day.

"Then, about a year after David was brought here; he just sat up and began talking. He still didn't know who he really was, though. He thought he was just Lieutenant Colonel Andreas Lindstadt, an officer of the German Army, not Rusa, the Minoan sailor, or David Ashton, Immortal elitist extraordinaire." No one in the room could suppress their grins at Vivia's remark.

"After Michael's breakthrough with David's catatonia and aphasia, I began talking to David again. I'd just been acting as a common nurse for months by that point. A month later, he suddenly called me Artemisia - that was the name he knew me as when he first met me. He didn't understand at first why he'd called me that name, but it was a start. We've been slowly gaining ground ever since. He knows who he is now and most of his past. He's almost back to normal now, I think." The Immortal woman's expression implied that there was a great deal more hope than belief in her statement.

Vivia sat. A full two minutes of silence reigned in the room as the two men absorbed the information. It was Dublin who spoke first. "Does he remember us?"

"Yes, he's regained his memories of you two by now. That's why I wrote Johnny and invited him here. I was surprised that he found you, though."

"I'm not hard to find if you know where to look," stated Dublin coyly. Turning serious again, he asked, "Can we see him?"

"This way," replied Vivia softly. "He's outside with Michael right now. He likes to sit out there where he can smell the sea. He doesn't know you're coming." Everyone regained their feet and left the waiting room, the men following Vivia down the long hallways. Three minutes of wordless walking brought them within sight of a doorway letting out to a patio. The tumult of their emotions was magnified by the unmistakable sensations brought about by the presence of another Immortal.

They filed through the door one by one, stopping side by side as they drank in the sight of the man situated before them. David Ashton, alias Lieutenant Colonel Andreas Lindstadt, clad in full German uniform, stood facing them, his form backlit by the slowly receding rays of the setting sun. A boy of about ten sat at a wooden table, his eyes full of curiosity. The blond German officer assessed the two new faces on display in front of him, the mental dials visibly turning behind his deep blue eyes. A just as noticeable solidification of memory spread across his face, the newcomers' identities confirmed in his mind.

"Johnny. Darren," he breathed huskily, his voice full of unabashed affection and welcome. The two visitors came forward with equal warmth and embraced their friend, unashamed tears beginning to flow from all eyes, even those of the boy at the table who by now recognized what was happening. Three Immortals broke their grasp of each other and stood back, grinning.

"Please sit," invited Ashton, before noticing there were not enough chairs for them all. He turned to the boy. "Michael, my boy, would you please get two more chairs? And have one of the orderlies bring us a few beverages, if they can. There's a good lad." He watched contentedly as the boy trotted away, beaming with delight at being assigned this mission. The three men sat, Vivia standing near the table, a small grin turning her lips upward.

Johnny turned to look at Vivia, confusion staining his features. "Wait a minute. I thought this hospital was just for Allied soldiers. How was David allowed to be here?"

Ashton chuckled to himself as Vivia began to explain. "When David was captured, he was brought here because Craiglockhart was one of the best centers for treating neurasthenia. The officers in London wanted him cured quickly so they could interrogate him and perhaps extract useful information. Unfortunately for them, it took far too long for him to show any signs of recovery. Anything they could have learned from him by the time he began showing positive signs would have been useless to them. Also at that time, it was decided that it would be better to leave him here where the staff were familiar with his case than to ship him to a prisoner of war facility and attempt to continue his care there."

"After no small bit of lobbying on my behalf from Vivia, I might add," inserted Ashton.

Vivia smiled. "Yes. By now, of course, David, or Colonel Lindstadt, I should say, is so well liked by the hospital staff that they'd fight in his defense if anyone tried to transfer him."

Michael returned with a chair, his breathing slightly elevated after having apparently run throughout the building, placing it next to Vivia before running off again. He returned seconds later, an elderly orderly close behind him. Michael set his chair next to Ashton and jumped into it, his assignment complete. Dublin began chuckling at the sight of the contents of the orderly's hands: a tray containing a bottle of Scotch, a bucket of ice, and several glasses.

"My word, Da... Andreas, you do have these people wrapped around your finger, don't you?"

Ashton grinned. So did the orderly, who replied, "We like to take care of our VIP patients, sir. Colonel Lindstadt has been a pleasure to attend to. He has behaved himself since he began his recovery so we are happy to meet any reasonable request he makes of us." The orderly reached into his back pocket and withdrew a small, flat hinged box. "With the staff's compliments, sir," he said, handing the box to Ashton, and took his leave with a grin.

Ashton's long fingers flipped open the box's top. "Obviously someone's been planning our reunion for a while," he said as he turned the box to show the five cigars within the box. "This is becoming a proper celebration after all." He passed them around as Dublin poured drinks for all four Immortals and even, after a nod from Vivia and Ashton, a small one for Michael. A wooden match was struck and candles on the table were lit. One of the candles then made a circuit around the table, beginning the slow burn of four cigars, only the mortal boy abstaining.

Dublin leaned forward in his chair as smoke clouds formed over his head, his eyes scanning the papers spread across the table. "What's all this?"

Ashton grinned. "A plan for after the war; I think it will be over very soon. There's an opportunity developing in the United States that could be very productive if properly handled. Oh, and since you're here." He reached for some papers held down by a glass paperweight. "You'll save me the trouble of posting this to one of your drop boxes. I think this would be something calling for your particular skills, as well." He handed three sheets of paper across to Dublin, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

They sat silently as Dublin perused the message by the light of the candles, his expression changing slowly from blank to pure disbelief. He reread the message to be sure he had not misinterpreted its meaning. Setting the papers back on the table, he reached for his drink and downed the fiery liquid in one gulp. With a gasp, he looked at his friend of nearly a millennia and said, "Are you serious? You really think you can do this?"

"Of course, I do," came the confident response. "The prohibition movement has been gaining favor in the States for years. It's only a matter of time before they succeed in changing their Constitution and outlawing the sale of alcohol in their country. However, this won't reduce the demand for the stuff amongst the populace. In my opinion, it will only increase demand and leave a wide, untapped market waiting for someone to move into and fill the gap...at whatever price he may choose to set."

"Yeah, and he's got it all planned out," input Michael, who had sipped his Scotch only twice before setting his glass aside and jumping up to point at a map partially concealed by pages of notes. "He was working on ways to get the stuff into the country when you showed up." The boy pointed excitedly at the markings. "See? He's going to bring it in from Canada."

"Canada?" Johnny sat up. "How will you do that?"

"That is where Darren comes in. He will handle the transportation of the product to distributors in the States."

"Okay," accepted the boy Immortal, "but how will you get the product, as you say, yourself? Who will you buy it from? Or will you make it yourself in your bathtub?"

"My dear Johnny, since the turn of the century, I have been purchasing distilleries and breweries in Canada. At the start of the war, I directly or indirectly owned over seventy percent of them. That letter I gave Darren was to authorize him to act on my behalf and purchase the remaining thirty percent in whatever manner he sees prudent. Once the prohibition amendment is passed, he will begin coordinating shipments throughout the States via an already established distribution network."

"Already established network? What network is going to be capable of moving illegal alcohol through from Canada to the U.S? The American authorities are sure to be checking all imports, aren't they?"

"That they will, my friend, but they can't check all legitimate businesses and the Mafia's shipments, as well. I have connections with the American Syndicate. They are awaiting the passage of the amendment, too. I sealed trade negotiations with them ten years ago. I'll just have to remind them of our agreement when the right time comes." The grin on Ashton's face made it clear that only a fool would dare refuse to honor his "business agreement."

Johnny leaned back in his seat, his body convulsing with uproarious laughter which soon spread to everyone around the table. It was a full minute before the boy Immortal could regain enough breath to lean over to Vivia and even attempt to speak. "I think you can say he's cured, Vivia. This is the David Ashton we know and love."

xxxxxxxxxx

17 May 2004

Winchester, England

"Oh, my goodness," breathed Alyssa slowly. "He was setting this up over twenty years in advance. Oh, my. And he made an absolute fortune doing it."

"Yeah," continued Johnny. "And while he was doing that, he was using the money he made from it to work the stock market and make even more money. He actually predicted the crash of '29, but no one believed him. On the day it happened, he made millions in short sales."

Alyssa almost gasped in wonderment. "So the vast fortune he has now, I mean he was wealthy before, but it really began to grow because of liquor and the stock market. No wonder he acted so quickly when things started to go awry in Chicago. It was the lynchpin to everything he was doing."

"You're going to have to tell me about that, you know. Like what part you played in all that."

She waved him off. "I will one day but not right now. We don't have time for a story that long. It's longer than the one you just told me. As far as what part I played, for the moment, I'll tell you that I had a hand in David's internal information network, but he didn't know it was me, at the time."

Johnny grinned. "You were one of his spies inside the Mafia?"

Alyssa wiggled her head. "Kinda sorta. We'll get to that one day. Right now, I want a nap." She rolled over on her back. Then she sat up. "What about Tristan?"

"What about him?"

"It's been two hours and he's not back yet."

"I'm sure he's fine." They felt the tingle of another Immortal nearby. "That's probably him now. And although I don't mind the view, you might want to lie down and cover up just in case he walks into the bedroom."

With another giggle, she replied as she complied with his suggestion, "He's seen that much of me already. And maybe a bit more. He even got a kiss from me."

"Really? When?"

"On the cruise. Didn't I tell you about our run-in with Goran Lambros?"

"No." Johnny sat up, facing the doorway, just to be cautious. Looking back at her, he said with a smirk, "Looks like there's another story I need to hear sometime."

"I'm back," Tristan called from the living room.

"We're in the bedroom," announced Johnny, "though we're not exactly decent." He then added, "But when are we?"

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, dear," said Alyssa, propping herself up on her elbows.

Tristan stepped through the doorway. At the sight of Johnny sitting bare chested in the bed and Alyssa's obviously unclothed shoulders and arms, he blushed instantly.

"It's okay, dear," she comforted. "Nothing you haven't seen before, right?"

"Uh, I guess not. I just didn't expect to find you like this."

"Johnny and I had to wrestle with a problem until it was resolved."

Johnny looked over at her. "I hope all parties were satisfied with the results of the negotiations."

"I would say there were multiple high points to the negotiations, definitely," replied Alyssa.

"Oh, God," muttered Tristan, slumping against the wall. "Now they're trying to speak in code about their orgasms." He eyed them accusingly. "You know I'm only twelve physically, right?"

"I'm sorry, dear. We weren't trying to be condescending, just polite."

"Yeah," interjected Johnny. "Call it the British side of us getting in the way."

"What did you get at the bookshop?" asked Alyssa.

"Yeah, and you were away for quite a while. What happened?"

Tristan pushed away from the wall. "Winchester's was closed for remodeling, but a university student, Maya, was passing by on her bicycle and told me about Waterstones. She gave me a lift there and we spent time walking around there. We had coffee and talked for a while and she dropped me off here. She was really cool."

Alyssa glanced at Johnny. "The two of you are from the same cloth, I swear. You're both little charmers."

Johnny grinned and shrugged. "So what did you get?"

"You won't laugh?"

"Me? No."

"I got _Collins Complete Guide to British Wild Flowers,_ a copy of _Walden,_ and _The Lives of the Great Composers."_

"The boy's an intellectual," said Johnny, looking at Alyssa again. "David's going to love him." Shifting his gaze back to Tristan, he asked, "What are your other interests, then? Philosophy, music, botany, what else?" Johnny leaned back into the pillows as he spoke.

"Chemistry, history, art, literature. My parents were college professors. I grew up liking some deep stuff."

"And he plays Go," said Alyssa. "He's really good, too. He beat me on the cruise."

"Oh, God," exclaimed Johnny. "David's never going to let you out of his sight. You're going to be his new favorite boy." He threw up his arms. "That's it. I'm out. I might as well pack my bags. Almost eight hundred years as the favorite and now it's over."

Tristan looked concerned, unsure. Johnny smiled at his expression. "Congratulations, Tristan. You win."

Alyssa punched Johnny in the arm. "You can't lose the favorite spot over a game of Go. You play, too."

"Yeah, but I can't beat you. I never have. And this kid beat you the first time out?" He pointed a finger at Tristan. "Nope, I'm done. I might as well move to Bumfuck, Arizona."

"Uhm, I'm sorry," whispered Tristan, his eyes downcast.

Johnny threw a pillow at him, hitting him in the chest with it. "I'm jesting with you, kid. It's called fun. Have some."

Tristan picked up the pillow. He eyed Johnny appraisingly. "If you weren't lying naked in that bed, I'd hit you with this pillow right now."

"Is that all it takes to scare you off, little man? A little skin?"

Tristan's jaw dropped. "Okay, you asked for it."

He charged across the room. Grinning, Johnny reached over and grabbed Alyssa's pillow, pulling it from behind her. She squealed with laughter or protest - he wasn't sure which - as she fell back. He swung it at Tristan as the smaller boy came nearer. It was blocked by the other pillow. Tristan then crashed into Johnny and rubbed the pillow in his face, laughing as he did so. Johnny pushed him away, chuckling himself.

Throwing aside the bedclothes, Johnny pursued Tristan as he stumbled backward. Alyssa propped her head up on her hand again and watched the show. Slowly shaking her head from side to side, she smirked and said one word.

"Boys."

xxxxxxxxxx

17 May 2004

Southampton, England

"Who the fuck was that kid, Aadam?" Charles Steyn paced back and forth across the living room of the Southampton safehouse. The clomping of his heavy boots echoed in the room. It was giving the other occupant a headache. That other occupant, Aadam el-Farid, glared at Steyn with undisguised contempt for his impatience.

"I don't know, Charles. I'm much more concerned about the other two that were with him, one of them, at least. We should consider the ramifications of their influence."

"You mean Fairbanks and the girl?"

"Yes."

Steyn finally sat, pouring a snifter of bourbon for himself. He offered the bottle to Farid who refused it with a wave.

"I don't know the girl, but I know Fairbanks."

"How do you know him?" queried Farid.

"I met him when I was an instructor at the NAPOLA schools in Germany in the 1930s. He went by the name of Johann Schultheiss, at the time. I learned his real name later on. He was a good student at first, took to the philosophies well, but then I started to see doubts in his eyes." Steyn took a gulp from his snifter and looked at Farid. "There is no room for doubt."

"Of course," confirmed Farid.

"Anyway, he and his 'father,' Major Anton Schultheiss, who was an officer in the fallschirmjäger, the paratroopers, just vanished one day. I later learned that Anton Schultheiss was none other than David Ashton. The bastard went over to the British and commanded their special operations during the war. Fairbanks, somehow, got caught behind our lines and caused his own havoc by working with partisans during the whole war. I had a few run-ins with him but we were never able to come to blades.

"My point is if that boy in the tree is connected with Fairbanks then Ashton is going to learn about us eventually. Ashton is now commanding his own private army under contract with the British government. He has the authority to act at will anywhere within the country or, within certain limits, internationally. He is going to be a major problem for us."

"I see," said Farid. "I have similar concerns about the girl."

"Who is she?"

"Alyssa Cordeiro. She is a Portuguese Jew currently living in England. A few years ago, she resided in Israel. Because of her darker skin, that tan of hers, she was able to blend in with the Palestinians in the camps. She developed many contacts in the camps and was feeding information to the Israeli Defense Force. Many of our missions were thwarted because of the inside knowledge she gave them and many of our warrior brothers were killed as a result."

"What do we do, then?"

"We continue as before. There was nothing said at that meeting that gave away any sensitive information."

"What if the boy in the tree recorded us? It looked like he had a phone in his hand."

"Even if he did, and if he could translate what he heard, then he knows about a hundred buses, but he doesn't know when or where. And they know nothing of our larger plan. We still have information security on our side. We are safe, Charles."

"And if we're not?" Steyn finished his snifter and refilled it.

"Then we deal with events as they come. Calm down, my friend. We will be fine."

"We'll see," muttered Steyn, draining his glass a second time. "And what about Hakim? The fucker got himself caught by that off-duty cop. What if he talks?"

"He won't talk. Besides, Rafa was with us, too. He will make sure Hakim has a good lawyer and is free very quickly. Don't be so concerned, Charles. We have more pressing matters than your getting an ulcer over such trivialities."

The South African grunted and reached for the bourbon bottle. Farid scowled at him. "Don't you think you should slow down on your consumption of that filth?" he spat.

"You worry about your part of this arrangement, Aadam, and I'll worry about mine. As long as my drinking doesn't interfere with my part then it's none of your concern."

Farid gave the bottle another poisonous stab with his eyes as Steyn poured another snifter full of the brown liquid. "I know you have your religious objections to alcohol, Aadam, and I do appreciate your grudging allowance for my vices. Consider it a small sacrifice in favor of our joint goal. While our motivations may differ, our objectives are the same. You want the British and other "infidels" as you call us out of Muslim lands and that is partly why you're doing this. I do it to advance my own theology and, of course, for the money. The goal, defeating the British both domestically and in Afghanistan and Iraq, is the same."

Farid grinned at the blond man. "On that, my friend, we can agree."

xxxxxxxxxx

17 June 1975

Atlanta, Georgia

"Where will you go?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Penance. "North, I guess. I'd like to spend some time in the northern states for a bit. See some snow. Go to an Orioles games, maybe."

"I didn't know you were a fan."

Penance shrugged. "Who knows when or if I'll actually go to Baltimore. Besides, one team is as good as another if you're going to pretend to be a fan. I just chose one in a northern state that I haven't visited in a while. Sometimes it can even be fun."

"Are you sure I can't go with you," asked Tristan.

"No, we've travelled together for three years now. It's been great. I've loved being with you. Besides the challenges of just living, it's also been fun because of you. It's actually because of that which makes me want to leave."

"I don't understand."

"I have enemies, Tristan. Well, an enemy, another Immortal. He kills everyone I love, every friend I've ever made or foster parent I've ever had. I've kept a lookout for him the whole time we've been together, just in case. I haven't seen him, fortunately, but it's because of him that I have to go. The longer I'm with you, the more I put you at risk. I don't want him to find you."

"He can't be worse than Matthias Bauer and you fought him off."

"No, Tristan. Matthias Bauer is scum, but this guy is pure evil. If you see him, you run. Don't fight him, just run. He's my fight, not yours." Penance described the man in detail. "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"And you'll run?"

"Yes, I will."

Penance hefted his tartan backpack, but his gaze fell to his shoes. He kicked a small rock.

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better teacher for you. I tried to teach you things that would keep you alive, but I really don't know that much. I'm sorry." When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes.

Tristan stepped forward and embraced his friend. "You were a good friend to me. That was more important. You were there when I felt the most alone. I will always be thankful to you."

Stepping back, his arms still on the boy's shoulders, Tristan focused his own waterlogged eyes on those of his companion. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Penance." Tristan put a hand on the older Immortal's chest over his heart.

"Believe it or not, there is a big heart here. It belongs to…" Tristan paused, leaned into Penance's ear where he whispered the boy's real name, and then stepped back. "...And not this persona of Penance Cameron you've created. I hope you realize that one day. You're a good person, not a hopeless vagrant."

"Maybe," said Penance without any real conviction. "If I do, it would only be for your sake, not for mine. You're a better person than I am."

Tristan grinned. "I don't believe that. You saved me when I need it; I didn't save you."

"How did I save you?"

"By making me leave Clearwater and realize what I am. And what I have the potential to be. I see so many opportunities because of you."

Penance scoffed. "I never did figure out what the 'remnant of Caphtor' was, though."

Tristan replied with another grin. "But didn't Galabeg say, 'The time isn't right yet?'"

"Stupid bitch," Penance growled.

"One of us will solve it eventually. I'm not worried about that. I just want my friend to be safe and happy while he travels north." Tristan hugged him again. "Can you do that?"

Penance adjusted the straps on his backpack. He looked back into Tristan's eyes. Finally, he smiled. "Damn, your happiness is contagious even when you're sad. Yes, I can do that."


	15. A Rich Man's World

Author's Note: I have to thank a recent conversation with a female friend for the unintentional but somehow humorous information about women and their pains when shopping for certain items of clothing.

"In my dreams I have a plan  
If I got me a wealthy man  
I wouldn't have to work at all

I'd fool around and have a ball"

"Money, Money, Money" -Benny Goran Bror Andersson / Bjoern K. Ulvaeus

18 May 2004

Winchester, England

Johnny picked up the bedside phone and thought better of it for a moment. He called out to Alyssa.

"You have the train tickets, right?"

"Yes, dear."

"When do we leave again?"

"Ninety minutes."

"Okay," whispered the boy to himself. "Plenty of time." The lifted the handset again. Dialing from memory, he waiting through the series of clicks and reroutes. A male voice answered in German.

" _Forschungsabteilung."_ (Research department.)

" _Hallo, Herr Alinsky, das ist Kurt Lange. Ich habe jemanden, der dich morgen treffen möchte. Wir hatten einen gemütlichen Tag und sahen Buckingham Palace um 13:45 Uhr und Somerset House um 22:00 Uhr. Möchten Sie sich uns anschließen?"_ (Hello, Mr. Alinsky, this is Kurt Lange. I have someone who would like to meet you tomorrow. We were going to have a leisurely day and see Buckingham Palace at 13:45 and Somerset House at 22:00. Care to join us?)

" _Ja. Treffen wir uns kurz vor Mittag und essen wir zuerst zu Mittag."_ (Yes. Let's meet a little before noon and have lunch first.)

" _Hört sich gut an. Ich werde dich dann sehen."_ (Sounds good. I will see you then.)

" _Auf Wiedersehen."_ (Goodbye.)

Johnny cradled the handset and walked into the living area. Tristan eyed him curiously.

"What was that about?"

"We're meeting David for lunch tomorrow."

Johnny smirked at the sight of Tristan's legs wobbling. "We're meeting him...tomorrow. Already?"

"What? Afraid?"

Tristan looked at the floor. "Yeah, a little."

Johnny put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be. Despite everything you've heard, he's just a guy. A normal man. If you believe all the hype, you'll be disappointed. He doesn't fly or glow in the dark. He's just like us."

"He does make money appear out of thin air," quipped Alyssa, "but that only matters if you're one of his investors."

"What were the times about? Are we really going to Buckingham Palace tomorrow?" Tristan glanced at his jeans and t-shirt. "I don't think I have the right clothes for that."

Johnny grinned. "No, those were directions for him to find us. Alyssa is going to want to go shopping after leaving all her clothes at the park so we're going to Paul Smith in the morning. The times were directions on a clock."

Tristan returned the grin. "You gave him coordinates for an intersection on a map."

Johnny laughed and squeezed his shoulder. "Very good. So you've done this before?"

"Oh, yeah. Lots of times. My friend, Matt, the SF guy, drilled map reading and land navigation into me until I breathed it." Tristant furrowed his brow. "So the German and the times were just a bit of security, then?"

"That's right. It's simple and easily cracked, but it's better than no security at all. Assuming anyone is listening, that is."

"And it's best to assume someone always is," said Alyssa. "That why he never uses his real name on calls like that. Each name he uses for himself and for the greeting has a different meaning."

"Really?" Tristan's eyes widened. "What did yesterday's call mean?"

""Mr. Wolcott" means it's a report to David's intelligence people. "Daniel Clifton" is me, of course, but also means it's a priority report of a high-value individual. In this case, Charles Steyn."

"Wow! How do you remember all of these?"

"It took some time but, after a while, it became easy. The guys at the other end, poor devils, have to have a key to decipher it all. David, on the other hand, is a walking encyclopedia and just remembers everything. By the way, did you know that he and Darren, another friend you'll meet, were the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes?"

"What?" It was Alyssa's turn to be surprised.

"Yeah, Darren is the organized slob, like keeping his bills pinned to the wall with a dagger. Did you ever notice that? He's also the disguise master and deceiver."

"David is the guy who never forgets anything and notices everything. He's also the one who solves complex problems for fun. Watch him when you meet him. You'll see it.

"Put them together and they're Sherlock Holmes. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a friend of theirs and would often drink with them. He noticed those traits and decided to poke fun at them by creating a conjoined character parodying them. It made him famous. They deny it has any connection to them, of course."

"By the way," interjected Alyssa. "Where are we staying when we get there? You didn't have David or one of his minions make a reservation for us, did you?"

"No, but he has a standing reservation at The Ned and we can use that. It's just a few minutes by taxi from Paul Smith, too."

"The what?" asked Tristan.

"It's a hotel." Johnny looked at his watch. "We should go if we're going to make the train on time."

"Yeah," grumbled Alyssa, "but Paul Smith doesn't sell underthings. I'll have to go elsewhere for those."

"What? You can't go commando like we boys do sometimes? Seeing you run around braless, or just less, for a few days wouldn't be a bad thing, I'd bet."

"Jonathan Christopher Fairbanks, don't make me slap you."

xxxxxxxxxx

It only took an hour's train ride to transport Tristan once again into another world. He had experienced new surroundings before but they always came with an initial shock. London was no different. The sights, sounds, and smells were completely alien. The people were still people. The language was still English, mostly, to his ears. It still made him dizzy. And it showed.

"What's wrong, dear," asked Alyssa, hugging him close.

"Everything's so different." His eyes continued to scan out the taxi's window. "The train, the people, the taxi, the signs, the dialects. I thought I was ready for it all, but I guess I wasn't. I mean, that's a lot that's the same, but so much that isn't."

"It wasn't like this back home when you went to a new place?"

"Not this drastic. Not at all."

"Imagine if we were in Germany or Spain," said Johnny.

"You're not helping," Alyssa spat.

"Sorry." Johnny turned to his own window and was silent.

"Will you be okay?"

"Yeah, it will just take a little while to adjust, I guess."

"We'll help you. Don't worry about that."

The taxi pulled up to a massive marble-faced building. The driver turned to face them. "That'll be twenty-two sixty, please."

"Thank you very much," said Johnny, handing over a note. "Keep the change."

"Are you sure, lad?" asked the driver. "This is a fifty-pound note."

"I'm sure. Have a great day."

The driver beamed. "I certainly will. And you kids, as well."

"How much did you just give him?" asked Tristan. "I mean in dollars?"

"Let's see," said Johnny as they approached the entrance. "It was a little more than a forty dollar fare. Fifty pounds currently exchanges for a slightly more than ninety dollars."

Tristan froze in midstep. "You gave him a fifty dollar tip?"

"Now you see why he was so happy," added Alyssa, passing him.

"If we're staying at a place like The Ned, being cheap on anything should be the last thing on our minds." Johnny continued walking.

Tristan took one last look at the incredible edifice in front of him. "I guess not," he agreed and followed them.

The interior was even more impressive. Tristan stood to gawk at the overstuffed furniture, the expensive wooden tables emitting a hypnotic aroma, and the soothing music. Again, he looked at his own attire and felt underdressed. He ran his fingers through his hair and, despite having showered earlier that morning, felt unwashed.

 _I don't think I can afford to breathe the air in this place._

He looked around and notice that Johnny and Alyssa had gone straight up to the front desk. Johnny's posture and gait bespoke someone who belonged here despite his common dress.

"Hello," Tristan heard him say to the clerk, sliding an ID card across the desk. "I'm Jonathan Ashton. I'd like the Stairwell Studio Suite under the Ashton reservation, please."

The clerk picked up the card and studied it carefully. She tapped some keys into her computer. Quickly, she adopted a friendly smile.

"Yes, sir. Accomodations for two tonight?"

"Three," corrected Johnny, indicating Tristan.

"Of course," said the clerk. "Any baggage?"

"None."

"Very well, sir." She motioned for an attendant. "Please follow Steven. He will take you to your suite and take care of any needs you may have."

"Thank you, Pamela," said Johnny, with a smile of his own. He took his ID card. Pamela continued to smile.

"Have a wonderful morning, Mr. Ashton," she called after them as they followed Steven.

Steven opened the door to the suite and allowed the three children to enter. He followed them and stood with his hands clasped in front of him.

"Is there anything else I may do for you, Mr Ashton," he inquired.

"Yes, Steven," replied Johnny, checking his watch. "Would you please make a reservation for three down at Zobler's? We'd like to have brunch in thirty minutes."

"No problem at all, sir," said Steven with a smile.

"Thank you, Steven," responded Johnny, offering his hand. Steven took it and they shook.

"I'll take care of everything, sir. Have a good morning." Steven smiled again backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

"I'm going to run out of cash fast at a place like this," groaned Tristan once they were alone.

"I'll give you some. Don't worry," assured Johnny. "David taught me to keep a decent supply of cash on me for times like these. I will need to get some more, though. I figure, after we eat, we might was well let Alyssa do some shopping."

At that, Alyssa faced him, put her hands on her hips, and grinned. "Oh, blame me, will you?"

"Well, I have enough in my little bag for a few days," replied Johnny. "How about you, Tristan?"

"Except for looking like a bum in this place, I'm okay, I guess."

Johnny chuckled despite himself. "We could all use a few things. It gives me a chance to hit the cash point anyway."

"The what?" asked Tristan.

"The ATM," defined Alyssa, picking up a pillow from the sofa and throwing it at Johnny. He's reverting back to his British speak now that he's in a posh hotel."

Tristan took a moment to observe his surroundings. He felt the blood drain from his face. Alyssa laughed.

"What's wrong, Tristan?"

"Uh, I shouldn't touch anything in here. If I break it, I could never afford to pay for it. I thought the room I had with the Needhams on the cruise was luxurious and the suite in Winchester was incredible. This…this is just unbelievable. It's mind blowing."

Johnny grinned. "For eight hundred pounds a night, it had better be."

Tristan stood still and did the mental math on the exchange rates. He shivered. "Oh, my goodness. Really?"

"Enjoy it, Tristan," said Johnny with a malicious smirk. "Once David starts training you, he's going to extract a lot more than that from you in sweat and pain. Take it from a boy who has been through it himself. That's why I have no qualms about spending his money now."

Tristan shivered again. "I think I'm even more afraid of him now than I was before."

"Hah," laughed Johnny. "Like I said, don't be. He has the same philosophy about himself. He trains hard and he lives wells. Very well. Why? Because he damn well earned it, that's why."

"Don't you have your own money, too? Alyssa said you do some stuff that makes good money yourself."

"Of course. I'm not a complete parasite. That's what I've been handing out as tips and taxi fare. David's money is just for the stuff I can't do myself, like make hotel reservations. I'm sure you can relate to that. Other stuff, like when we go to buy clothes, is on me."

Alyssa piped in. "Speaking of other things, boys, let's get to that restaurant. A girl gets hungry when she travels."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I warn you, Alyssa," stated Johnny as they took the thirty minute stroll to Calvin Klein after lunch. "Tristan and I are not going to hang around while you shop for underwear."

"What?" said Tristan, startled.

"You mean you want to?" asked Johnny.

"I mean, no, I just… I'm surprised you mentioned it, that's all."

"Have you ever been with a girl while she shopped for underthings, especially for bras?"

Tristan blushed and shook his head. Johnny smirked.

"It's agonizing."

"How do you think it is for us?" interjected Alyssa. "We could try three of the same size and only one would fit properly, maybe. It's no fun for us, either. I should have ordered a stronger drink at the restaurant to steel me for the agony I'm going to face while shopping for these things. You boys run off and do whatever you like while I'm busy doing that."

"I'd be willing to stay and help," offered Johnny, "if I can handle the underlying software while I'm doing it."

Beside him, Tristan blushed even redder. Alyssa shook her head, causing her long hair to flow behind her in the light breeze. "Not right now, you little horndog." Johnny just grinned.

"Just trying to help. At least you can pick up some stuff to go with the nice clothes you get at Paul Smith tomorrow. Shoes and stuff."

"But I lost my favorite shirt in that case. Now I have to find a new favorite shirt. And it's going to take me forever to find a new pair of shoes."

"Oh, the challenges of life," cried Johnny in mock despair. Alyssa cuffed him across the back of the head with her palm. "Ow!"

"Don't belittle a woman's wardrobe qualms. They're just as real as when you're selecting a, well, that won't work for you. You're not a sport boy."

"Don't you mean "sports?"" asked Tristan.

"It's another dialect thing," clarified Johnny. "We say "sport" here. My favorite sport team is blah blah."

Putting his palms to his forehead, Tristan shook his head back and forth. "Oh, man."

Laughing, Johnny placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'll get used to it soon. It's only your second day here."

When they arrived at the store, the boys finished their individual shopping in twenty minutes. The only products Calvin Klein sold for boys was underwear and neither of them needed much in the way of new sets of that. They each wandered around the store for a while looking at the men's clothing. Johnny saw a few things he liked, but even the smallest sizes in stock were still too large for him.

"This one isn't very large on you," said the attendant assisting him. "At your age, you could grow into this one in just a few months, I'm sure."

"That's a possibility," asserted Johnny, "but you know how it is with teenagers. We grown in weird ways. I might grow up ten centimeters and not get any broader at the shoulders. Or just the opposite. Who knows? Best not to risk it." He removed the jacket and gave it back. "Thanks anyway."

He met Tristan a few meters away. "Come on. Let's find Alyssa and tell her we're leaving." He picked up his basket with his few items and began to walk.

"You were very polite to that guy."

"Why be an ass? He doesn't know I'm never going to grow up. He's just trying to do his job. Flies with honey and all that."

They found Alyssa in the women's section sitting on a bench talking to an attendant moments later. She had two baskets full of items already. She looked up as the boys approached. "The easy part is done. I have socks and underwear (Americans call them panties). Now the hard part." She tapped her chest as she said this.

"Well," announced Johnny. "That's our cue to leave, then. We'll just pay for our things and see you back at the hotel."

Alyssa grinned and stuck out her tongue. "Ooh, how unladylike," replied Johnny.

"Is this better?" she asked, her index and middle finger raised and parted, the palm facing towards herself. The grin was still on her face.

Johnny laughed. "Message received. Still unladylike, but message received." He blew her a kiss. She caught it and tucked it in her jeans pocket.

"I'll save that for later," she promised.

"See you for dinner?"

"Oh, I hope I don't take that long."

"Ha! Famous last words."

Alyssa grimaced. "True. We'll see. I'll see you when I see you."

"Do you have enough cash?"

"I have a credit card if I don't."

"Okay, see you at the room."

She waved. "Bye."

"What did that gesture mean?" whispered Tristan as they walked away.

"Oh, yes," said Johnny. "You're American. "It's called 'flipping the V.' Let me translate it for you." He held up his index and middle finger raised and parted, the palm facing towards himself, just as Alyssa had done. He then reached over with his other hand and pulled down his index finger. "Get it?" he asked with a grin.

"Yeah, it's pretty obvious now."

xxxxxxxxxx

19 May 2004

London, England

"Oh, Tristan, you look gorgeous in that little suit," gushed Alyssa.

Tristan eyed himself in the mirror. Even he had to admit that the suit looked good on him. He sighed mournfully. "I can't get it, though."

"Why not?" asked Alyssa.

"After exchanging the rest of my money this morning, I have a little more than £11,000. Just the trousers are £200. The jacket is £400. That's not even the complete outfit. If I keep spending money like that, I'll be broke by noon."

Johnny waved his hand. "Don't worry about that. It's my treat. A boy needs some nice clothes." He glanced at Alyssa. "Besides, if I'm going to buy this hot girl over here a new dress, I have to get something for her "gorgeous" boy toy, too."

"Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, Johnny Fairbanks," Alyssa asked, elbowing him in the ribs with a grin.

"Not at all. I just see how you're all over him. He's your little puppy." Johnny shrugged. "And I have no problem with that." He looked at Tristan appraisingly. "And you're right. He is cute. He'd be a good model. We need to get him in better shape first, but David will take care of that."

"Was that comforting or cringy?" Tristan's eyes stared at Johnny with a tinge of harshness.

Johnny's expression changed to one of utmost sympathy. His voice changed to a similar tone. "Trust me, Tristan, as one who has been in many cringy situations himself, that was meant to be comforting. I'm sorry if I sounded otherwise. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain."

"That's the truth," affirmed Alyssa. Johnny returned her elbowing. Tristan nodded, the apology accepted.

"Now," Johnny said. "Let's get this kid some more clothes."

They spent another three hours shopping before they made their way to the checkout. There were some difficulties, at first, with the teller when an adolescent boy tried to pay for several thousand pounds worth of clothing with a credit card. Johnny presented his ID and had the clerk verify that the name on the card and on the ID were the same, assuring her it was a legitimate purchase. She was still unsure and picked a phone to call her manager.

"That won't be necessary, ma'am," they heard as they electric sensations of an Immortal's presence hit the teens' systems. "I can vouch for this boy. He's my nephew."

All four turned to see a blond man of moderate height standing at the store's entrance. He may have just recently been a customer at the store himself dressed as he was in khaki trousers and a black polo shirt. His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. He stood with his arms crossed, awaiting a response from the clerk.

"Uhm, yes, sir. In that case, may I just see some identification from you, please?"

"Certainly," he replied, uncrossing his arms and approaching them. He withdrew a wallet from his back pocket and produced a plastic card. He handed it to the clerk with a slim smile. "Here you go," he said cooly.

"Thank you, sir." She glanced at the card and quickly returned it. "Thank you, Mr. Ashton." She returned her attention to the three children in front of her. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

Johnny smiled at her. "No trouble at all. Just being thorough is all."

The clerk quickly tallied the purchases and bagged the items. She rang the total. Tristan's jaw dropped when she announced the total. £11,856.58. Johnny just grinned and handed over his credit card as if he were buying candy. He signed the bill, thanked the clerk, and took the receipt. Each of the children then gathered their bags and trundled toward David Ashton. He stood with an air of mock impatience though he wore a tiny smirk on his lips.

"Having fun at the store, Johnny?" he inquired.

"Just another day, David," the dark-haired boy replied. Setting his bags down, he looked back and forth between his mentor and Tristan.

"Well, not really the way I envisioned it, but it will have to do," Johnny began with a dramatic flair. Sweeping his hands toward Ashton, he said, "David Ashton, I'd like you to meet Tristan Dahl, newly arrived from the United States." Johnny's hands waved across to Tristan as did his gaze where his eyes locked with those of the terrified younger Immortal. "Tristan Dahl, meet David Ashton." The hands swept back.

Tristan froze in place. His situation was not helped by the the sight of Ashton's eyes, and only his eyes, rotating around to fixate upon him. Dark brown eyes met ice blue and the brown shivered.

 _Move. Do something. You look like an idiot just standing here. Isn't this why you came here in the first place._

Mentally kicking himself, Tristan slowly set his bags on the floor. He took a tentative step toward the adult Immortal. He gulped. He took another step.

"Mr...Mr. Ashton," he stammered, forcing himself to extend himself and reminding himself of the proper way to shake hands. "I've heard a lot about you. I'd like to speak with you, if I may."

The blue eyes shifted ever so slightly. _Is he intrigued?_

Then the cold mask on the man's face evaporated, replaced by one of greeting. He closed the remaining distance between them with one step and clasped Tristan's small hand. "Tristan, it's…" He paused. "Very good handshake."

Tristan grinned. "My father taught me. He said, "If you want people to respect you then you have to have a good handshake.""

Ashton smiled and stood up straight. "I believe I would have liked your father. What was his name?"

"Martin Dahl. He's a professor at Tampa State University."

"Is?" The surprise in Ashton's voice was clear. Tristan nodded.

Ashton looked around the store. No one had noticed their conversation yet.

"Get your bags," Ashton said, taking two of the larger ones himself. "Let's get to the restaurant. It's not far from here. We need to talk."

The Brumus Bar and Restaurant was just shy of a kilometer from Paul Smith. Even on foot and with Tristan's short legs, they were there in twelve minutes. Ashton had reserved an outside table for them and they were seated as soon as they arrived. Tristan was amazed.

"I've never seen anyone seated right away."

Alyssa leaned over and wrapped herself around Ashton's arm. "You've never gone to a restaurant with David Ashton before, little man. People like him don't wait."

Seeing Tristan's confused expression, Johnny clarified. "You know how they say money greases the wheels?" Tristan nodded. "Well, lots of money makes them spin like crazy."

Ashton grinned. "This coming from the boy who just dropped nearly £12,000 on clothing a few minutes ago."

"Hey," rebuked Johnny. "In my defense, half of that was Alyssa's dress."

"And I look damn good in that dress," proclaimed Alyssa with a smile.

"And out of it," said Johnny. He made a kissing gesture toward his girlfriend. As she had the night before, she caught it and tucked it away. She then followed it up with a wink and flipping the V-sign at him again.

After they had all ordered, Ashton focused his attention on Tristan. "Now you, young man. Tell me about yourself. You're a very new Immortal if your father is still alive. What brings you all the way here? And, on a personal note, how the bloody hell do you know who I am? Take your time. I have all day."

Ashton leaned back in his chair, his posture at ease. Tristan couldn't resist his own sense of nervousness. He looked across the table at Alyssa. She nodded. He glanced at Johnny. Another nod and a pat on the back.

"It's okay," the other boy whispered.

Tristan took a deep breath. He looked into the man's eyes. The intimidation he felt was obvious in his face.

"You say you've heard about me, right, Tristan?" Ashton said in a low voice. Tristan nodded. "What have you heard?"

"You're from Minoa, an ancient civilization. You've been a soldier and a businessman your entire life. You're one of the wealthiest men in the world and one of the greatest generals in history, but only the Watchers know either of those things because of all of your identities."

Ashton raised an eyebrow. "You know about the Watchers, too?"

"Yes."

"Impressive. Continue."

"You were a Special Forces officer in Vietnam in the 1960s. In 1999, you led the Alliance in the Immortal-Watcher War. You destroyed the Hunters in Europe and decimated the Council, also. Today, you're the CEO of NextGen Corporation, a PMC under contract with the British government. You're also the Chairman and CEO of KefTech International, an up and coming IT manufacturing company. They have a big meeting tomorrow. That's partly why you're in London today."

"Wow, David," declared Johnny. "The kid should be one of your spies."

"All that makes me sound pretty frightening, doesn't it?" Tristan nodded again. Ashton smiled and leaned forward. He spoke softly. "Did the Watchers tell you about my little brother, Thekris? How close we were? How I was shattered when he died when he was only fifteen?"

Tristan's eyes widened. "No," he whispered.

"I bet they never mentioned I had a nervous breakdown in World War One and couldn't move or speak for two years because I was so traumatized. Or that my wife, Leisha, died in an apartment fire in 1954."

Tristan couldn't speak. He shook his head.

"You see, Tristan, it's natural for people to only talk about the most interesting or impressive of things, like the wars and the money. They never bring up the tragedies and the sadness, all those things that show that Immortals are still human."

Ashton reached out and took a light grip on Tristan's forearm just above the wrist. Johnny and Alyssa both smiled when they saw Tristan did not flinch when Ashton did this. "You can talk to me, Tristan. I'm just as normal and real," with that, he gently squeezed the boy's arm and then released it, "as you are."

Ashton sat back, his eyes still looking into Tristan's, waiting for the boy to speak. Again, Tristan took a deep breath. This time he opened his mouth and the words poured forth. They came slowly, at first, but then faster as his confidence built. He started with a summary of his pre-Immmortal life and the night of his first death. He continued through his early years with Penance and his wanderings through the United States. Finally, he came to the early 2000s, when he started to reconsider his life's path.

He told them about his journey from Alabama to Florida and his three hundred plus kilometer trek on foot through the forests and swamps of Florida. He included his meeting with Master Sergeant Boatwright, the ambush of Jack Connelly, and his sanctuary at Saint Matthias Lutheran Church. He mentioned his reunion with his parents and their assistance with his travels. Alyssa chimed in occasionally while he described his cruise. At last, he talked about his listening in on the conversation of the four strange men at Queen's Park.

"That's it, sir. Thirty years in thirty minutes or so."

"Quite a story," remarked Ashton, sipping his fruit smoothie. "And some very interesting people you've met along the way. Matt Woodham and John Boatwright? Two extraordinary men. I'm not surprised at all that you were able to get the drop on that Watcher with their help."

"They had some stories about you, too, sir," replied Tristan.

Ashton waved his hand dismissively. "I was just the officer. They did the impressive work. And if you call me "sir" one more time, I'm throwing your tiny body onto the roof of this restaurant and leaving your there. Call me David. Understand?"

"Yes…David."

Ashton grinned. "Very good." He squeezed Tristan's shoulder. "The only time you are to call me "sir"' or "Mr. Ashton" or any of that other formal garbage is when social situations call for it." He swept his hand around to indicate the four of them. "If it's just Immortals around, don't worry about all that shit. Or my language now and then."

Tristan laughed and grinned back at him. He said, mockingly this time, "Yes, sir."

At Ashton's stern glance, everyone at the table began to laugh.

"Okay, kids," Ashton proclaimed as they finished their meal. "Tristan here has given me quite the puzzle to solve with that little recording of his. I also have a training plan to develop."

Tristan's face lit up. "You're going to do it? You're going to train me?"

"Of course, I am." Ashton's expression seemed to say that was never in doubt. "Even if you were not a lost little waif in need of help," he looked at Johnny when he said this, "I think this would only be fair recompense considering the help you've already provided me and my organization with this recording."

"It's that big a deal?"

"Small cracks, my boy. Small cracks lead to major fissures. Because of this, you, Johnny, and Alyssa have identified a pending terrorist plot and two major terrorist figures, both of them Immortals. By the way, one of the other men was captured by an off-duty policeman while he was trying to pursue you. He attempted to resist the constable when he interfered with the chase and got a broken wrist for his trouble. That man is Hakim Al-Ghamdi. So now we have three names. Small cracks. They're getting larger. Because of you three, mainly you." Ashton pointed at Tristan. The boy grinned.

Ashton dropped several large bills on the table and stood. He looked around, thinking. His eyes came back to the children and then to their bags.

"You're at The Ned right now, correct?"

"Yes," verified Johnny.

"Very well." Ashton pointed east. "Over there, not even a kilometer from here, is the Savoy Hotel. Go back to The Ned, get your things, and move into the Savoy tomorrow. Stay there for a week. Relax. Show Tristan a good time. Go shopping, eat, play, whatever, just don't worry about anything for a week. Be kids again. Spoil yourselves. All of you. Use my black card to cover any expenses. After that, I'll come by and we'll talk about your training." He looked into Tristan's brown eyes. "How does that sound?"

"Unbelievable." Tristan's grin was ear to ear. "Thank you so much"

"You are quite welcome. You have earned it." Ashton shook his hand and gave him a warm smile. "Have fun."

xxxxxxxxxx

"What have you learned so far, Nicola?" Ashton sat in his suite at The Dorchester hotel. Beside him were two open cases of gadgetry that would make the special effects department of James Bond movies jealous. One of the devices, now tossed aside on the bed, he had just used to sweep the for listening devices and cameras. A second lay nearby. He used the other now. It did not look special at all. Anyone who saw it would think it to be nothing more than a slightly larger cellular telephone. In fact, the phone contained encryption software that set it on par with the secure telephone equipment used by the National Security Agency and other U.S. government agencies.

Next Generation Corporation, or NextGen, for short, was not only a private military corporation contracted to support military and domestic operations for the British government. As another significant stream of revenue, it also field tested first generation military and technical equipment for defense contractors. An entire staff of report writers were employed just to keep the various companies informed as to the performance of their equipment. If the equipment passed muster with NextGen, it could then move on to trials with the militaries of the respective nations with which the companies wished to partner.

In the case of the bug sweeper, Ashton had used the test model first and then followed up with another he knew to be dependable. The results had been the same. The person on the other end of the line, his chief intelligence officer, Nicola Courtorielle, had informed him of the security of the connection before he began speaking.

"We've picked up increased cell phone chatter in Arabic. Of course, it's only been a few days since the initial report, but we have noticed a term that caught our interest, _'atasil min aljibal."_

"Call from the mountains. Hmmm."

"Yes, we've heard that in several conversations since the seventeenth." Ashton heard the rustling of papers across the line. "This being the nineteenth, eight mentions of it in the last three days."

"Anything from our sources regarding surveillance of bus terminals, an increase in the number of Arabic-type individuals, or other notable activity?"

"Nothing so far. Of course, not know their timetable or actual targets is somewhat inhibiting. We can't exactly scatter our assets across the country and hope for some lucky information."

With a sigh, Ashton admitted, "Good point, Nicola. I'll leave you to what you do best. Thanks for the update. Out."

He severed the connection and grinned to himself. Some had argued with his decision to hire Nicola Courtorielle. She was a small blonde woman from Wales, barely out of her twenties. The metal bar through her eyebrow and the stud in her nose were in congruence with the chunks of pink or purple hair that she sometimes sported. But looks could be deceiving. What Nicola didn't know about Middle Eastern culture and religions would probably fit onto the back of a matchbook cover. Ashton didn't care so much about her personal grooming habits - she could file her teeth down to fangs for all he cared - as long as she produced results.

He had the same standard for any other civilian member of any of his companies around the world. Skill and merit mattered more than appearance and seniority. This policy paid off. In every sector of business in which he chose to participate, he attracted the best people. In return, they were given a wide degree of creative latitude in which to work and were paid handsomely. This retained the best people at least for as long as they could keep up with the competition. Once they could not, they were rewarded for their contributions and allowed to depart with honor.

There must be a distinction made between most employees of Ashton's other companies and certain members of NextGen. Some of these members, including Ashton himself, hold a nebulous dual-status. Of the eight hundred eleven military positions within NextGen, five hundred seventy-seven of them are held by actively-serving British soldiers; another one hundred fifty-three are Americans. These soldiers' records show them simply as on "Special Assignment" with duty location at Hereford and nothing more. They continue to be paid by the British government but fall under David Ashton's command. Also, since the NextGen salary for their equivalent position is higher than their military salary, NextGen makes up the difference. A clause in the contract with the British government makes the extra pay to these men exempt from all taxation.

Military personnel are not merely assigned to NextGen as they are to other units; they are selected based on rigorous trials. This applies even to support roles such as vehicle mechanics and cooks. The thinking behind this is to reduce the amount of deadweight transfering into the unit and thus the need to counsel, retrain, or transfer out those personnel who do not meet the standard.

Another question that had to be resolved when NextGen was formed was that of command of British soldiers in the field. In such situations, only commissioned or noncommissioned officers of the British Army are authorized to do so. For this reason, David Ashton and the other civilian members of NextGen who take up military billets (a billet is a position on the manning authorization document) hold military ranks and there are documents on file both at the Ministry of Defense and NextGen to support this. David Ashton, for example, holds the rank of brigadier (in the American Army, it would be Brigadier General). In this way, he and his men can both command troops and legally wear military uniforms while in the field.

Ashton put NextGen out of his mind for the moment. He packed away the high-tech toys and stowed them with his other luggage. He poured a glass of twenty-one-year old Macallan Scotch. Sipping it, he sat in front of his laptop opened one of his email managers. It pulled in email for ten of his identities around the world. A series of rules deleted, auto-responded, or auto-forwarded the majority of it based on its content. What remained either actually needed his attention or required a slight tweak to the rules so it would not be missed next time.

In three hours, he had opened eight different email managers, read and answered all the emails that required his attention except two. Refilling his Scotch glass, he picked up the telephone and dialed the front desk of the Savoy Hotel.

"Savoy Hotel. My name is Kelly. How may I assist you?"

"Good afternoon, Kelly, my name is David Ashton. I would like to make a reservation for three adjacent Deluxe Junior Suites, or better, for tomorrow through the twenty-sixth."

"That shouldn't be an issue, sir. One moment, please." Ashton heard the light tapping of computer keys. "Yes, sir, we have those rooms available. Would you like this billed to the American Express Black Card we have on file?"

"Yes, please. Do those rooms have the capability to adjoin?"

"Let me check the floor plan." A pause. "Yes, sir, they do. How many will be in the party?"

"Three, at first. One adult and two children. The adult, Alyssa Cordeiro, is twenty, and the two boys are fourteen and twelve. I will be arriving the evening of the twenty-fifth. You may bill any of their expenses to my card, as well. They youngest boy is on holiday from America and we've decided to spoil him for a while. They may even invite a friend or two."

There was a polite chuckle on the other end of the line. "That won't be a problem, sir. It's all arranged. Here is your confirmation number."

Ashton took down the number, thanked her, and terminated the call. He then called the front desk at The Ned. He tapped his foot as he waited to be connect to Johnny's room.

"Hello?" answered Johnny, sounding slightly in his cups. Ashton wondered offhand how the boy had managed to acquire alcohol but put it out of his mind. Johnny Fairbanks had his ways of getting what he wanted wherever he went.

" _Oto informacje na jutro,"_ Ashton said in Polish. (Here is the information for tomorrow.)

" _Śmiało,"_ Johnny replied, a bit clearer now. (Go ahead.)

Ashton told him everything, including the part Alyssa would have to play and the confirmation number. Johnny read it back for clarity and they hung up. Ashton picked up his glass and walked out to his balcony. Looking out over the city, he pondered the problem of Farid and Steyn. The two remaining emails from his other identities could wait a few more minutes.

 _So, my two troublemakers, what is this 'call from the mountains' and what does its message entail? What sort of mischief are you planning?_

xxxxxxxxxx

Alyssa flopped back onto the sofa and giggled aloud. She hugged a pillow to herself, a wide grin spreading across her lips.

"I can't believe we're going to the Savoy. This is incredible." She tossed the pillow in the air and giggled again as she caught it.

Tristan sat on the floor in front of the sofa, his back against it. He leaned his head back, the cushion next to Alyssa's ear crumpling as he did so.

"What's so special about the Savoy? Is it better than this place? I think The Ned is pretty awesome."

Alyssa rolled onto her side and ran her fingers through Tristan's long hair. She leaned over his face and rubbed her nose against his. This garnered a grin from the boy.

"Oh, you sweet, innocent boy," she answered. "Yes, this is a wonderful, exquisite hotel. However, just as much as you were amazed by how it compared to the Wykeham Arms, the Savoy is that compared to The Ned."

Tristan's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious. How can you get any better than this?"

"Alyssa might be exaggerating just a little bit," declared Johnny, sitting on the sofa and leaning down next to Alyssa. Her other hand began to run its fingers absentmindedly through his hair, as well. "Once you get to a certain level of luxury hotel, it's very difficult to compare one to another. The Savoy is superb. I'd be hard pressed to say it's better or worse than The Ned, just a different place."

Tristan turned his head slightly toward Johnny. "You've been there before?"

"Once," Johnny said, nodding, "back in the late forties. "There shouldn't be anyone there who remembers me now. It was a great place back then. Lots of big names were always coming in and out of the place. All kinds of restaurants and parties, just like here. David had his wedding to his last wife, Leisha, at the Savoy."

"Really?" asked Alyssa, sitting up a bit. "I didn't know that. When was it?"

"10 March 1946. David tried to invite you but couldn't find you."

"Oh, I was still in Hungary at the time."

"No wonder. You had your own troubles then."

"What troubles?" asked Tristan. "Not the Germans. The war was over."

"Russians," said Johnny. "Just as bad."

"Same problem; different flag," added Alyssa.

Before the mood could fall too low, Johnny continued, "It was a great wedding. David only allowed photos from friends, of course, so you won't see any at the hotel. You might see some in his private collection at the house, though. We stayed there for a couple of days after the wedding for our own celebration after the wedding while he and Leisha went off on their honeymoon."

"Where did they go?" asked Tristan.

"Several places. It was almost like a world tour. He took her to Crete to see his home island. They went to Egypt, then to New York, then Paris, and then Venice. It was a month long."

"Ooh, he really treated her right," replied Alyssa.

"He loved Leisha Garrison more than any woman I ever knew," said Johnny. "It was a beautiful thing to see." The boy was silent for a moment, lost in his own reverie. "Asami reminds me of her a little bit, sometimes."

Tristant turned his head again. Alyssa's fingers were still massaging his scalp.

"Who's Asami?"

"David's girlfriend," said Johnny, almost sitting up in his excitement before realizing he would forfeit his own massage by doing so. "You'll meet here when we get to the house. She's a beautiful Japanese woman that's been living with us for about a year now."

"Beautiful is almost an insulting word when it comes to Asami," affirmed Alyssa, a swooning tone to her voice. "Stunning is more like it."

"Okay," accepted Johnny, "this stunning Japanese woman that has been living with us for about a year now. At first, you think she's just this tiny, demure girl who stands in the background silently. Oh, no, she's strong-willed and incredibly intelligent. She has two bachelor's degrees in Japanese literature and Japanese history."

Alyssa joined in. "Her name is just as lovely as she is. Asami Ukita, or more properly in Japanese, Ukita Asami, since they go by family name and then given name. _Asam_ i means "morning beauty." _Ukita_ means "floating rice field."

"She's even a talented martial artist. You wouldn't think it being that she's so small. She's a little bit tinier than Alyssa actually. Sometimes she'll strap on some armor and get into kendo duels with David. She even gets a hit on his now and then and I don't think it's because he's being nice and letting her do it.

"Anyway, I said sometimes she makes me think of Leisha. It's that sharp mind and strong will of hers that does it. Other than the fact that she's hot, ow!" Alyssa had just pinched him for that comment. "Other than that, I think that's what David likes about her. He likes strong women and intelligence. I've seen him around pretty ditzes and his patience wears thin very quickly with them. He doesn't even see them as worthy targets for getting laid. Ow!" Another pinch. "It's probably why he only does every century or so. Ow!"

"Like his sex life is any of your business, you little imp," chided Alyssa, smiling and returning her attention to his scalp.

"Hey, I just want my friends to be fulfilled and happy."

"What's to say he isn't?"

Johnny's voice got somber. "Please don't take what I'm about to say as offensive. It might sound that way. You didn't know him before his breakdown; before World War One. He's different now. I know it might not seem like it but he's much more…distant than he used to be. He's getting better but it's slow."

His voice regained its more cheerful quality. "You know, actually having Asami, Marc, and Tally in the house has helped him a great deal. Having the kids and a girlfriend after fifty years as a bachelor, and now," he reached over and squeezed Tristan's shoulder, "a student, I think all of this will be very, uhm, therapeutic for him."

Tristan, responding initially with a grin to the shoulder squeeze, twisted his head again. "How did we get from the Savoy to this talk about therapy?" he queried.

Alyssa shrugged. "Flow of conversation?"

"I guess," admitted Tristan.

Johnny sighed and sat up. "Tristan is right. We have some good times to plan. I'm going to make a few calls. Maybe Ray can join us."

Alyssa beamed at the mention of the name. "Oh, she's a party girl."

"Oh, yes, she is."

Tristan turned on the floor to look at Alyssa properly. "What does that mean?"

Alyssa grinned and patted his shoulder. "Trust me, dear. She's fun."

xxxxxxxxxx

19 May 2004

Winchester, England

"See, Charles, I told you there was no need for concern. Hakim is already free. None the worse for wear except for his wrist." Aadam el-Farid's face showed his obvious contentment with the situation as he set the cell phone on the kitchen table.

"Now we just have to hope there are no more mishaps," grumbled Steyn.

Farid grinned wider. "Oh, come now, my friend. You're being unrealistic. We're talking about a complex, multifaceted plan with a year long timetable and hundreds of people. Of course, there are going to be mishaps. We just have to be flexible and deal with them as they come."

Steyn looked about the kitchen and adjacent living room of the house, his ever present glass of bourbon at hand. He sniffed loudly. "And you're sure this safehouse is, well, safe, being only a few kilometers from the park?"

Farid's grin diminished somewhat but remained. "At the moment, anyway, I have no reason to think otherwise. It is my belief we would have been attacked by now if we had been compromised. We can focus on more pressing matters right now.

"Rafa is going to Assadabad day after tomorrow to arrange for the men we will need as couriers for our packages when the day comes next year. He has around one hundred fifty men there now. Of course, we will need many more for the second and third phases. We need to get them here over time."

"That's going to require a lot of paperwork," said Steyn, downing his drink. "And money," he added with a small belch.

"That is why I will also be going in a few weeks. They have most of the money already. I've coordinated for the rest to be delivered to them through a hawala network in the next few months." A hawala network is an underground method of transferring money. It is outside of traditional banking systems and exists without promissory notes or official ledgers. Based exclusively on trust between its members, it is a word-of-mouth network. Money does not usually move from place to place in large amounts.

If Bob in Seattle gives Frank $50 and says he wants it to go to Stephen in London, Frank will promise it will get there. Frank is now obligated to somehow see to it that $50, minus a small commission, gets to Stephen. He may communicate with another node in the network, called a hawaladar, in another location. If so, he would promise a future transfer of money or a future service. The hawaladar in that other location, London, for example, would then provide Stephen with the money minus commissions. Over time, all the hawaladars would settle their accounts.

"I will also be taking along blank passports and other documents to aid in their travel. We will then start bringing the men in over the next year and staging them at various locations. Our primary job at that point will be seeing to their needs until the day of the event."

"Do any of these men speak English, Arabic, anything I speak? Or just Dari and Pashto?"

"Some of them, yes. Don't worry. That's already been considered. There will be enough English and Arabic speakers that we will not have a problem communicating with them."

"So we have to feed, water, and entertain these men for a year?"

"The first two factors will be the most daunting, as well as the necessary needs of the toilet. Entertainment will not be much of a concern. These are simple men, for the most part. Since the men will need to be spread out for security purposes, you will likely only be supervising a group of appointed local managers and subcontractors."

Steyn nodded. "That's exactly how I visualized it, as well. And what about Carlton Pollack?"

"He will have his hands full developing explosives for us." Farid stood and turned his back on Steyn, his hands crossed behind him. "I must thank you for introducing him to me. He is proving to be most useful."

"Yeah," Steyn laughed. "He came to me after, as he called it, "an unfortunate event" in Chicago in '29. He's very talented in a chemistry lab and, oh, how that man loves to make things explode."

Farid turned to face Steyn again, a grin on his face. "We will have a lot of pleasure for him, then."


	16. Let's Party

Author's Note: I took a bit of artistic license with this part. The Savoy Hotel did not have butler service during the time these particular events occured. They did not reinstate that service until 2010 after thirty years without it. The Savoy butlers now set the standard for how butlers should perform.

The central suite described here also does not actually have a balcony. In this story, it does.

"I'll watch you lose control  
Consume your very soul  
I'll introduce myself today  
I'm the demon alcohol"

"Demon Alcohol" - B. Daisley / O. Osbourne / Randy Castillo / Z. Wylde

20 May 2004

London, England

The head butler of the Savoy Hotel, Sean Bremner, unlocked the door and stepped inside the room. With a smile and and gesture, he invited the three young people to enter. "This is the first of your three suites," he said. "This is the middle suite so they adjoin on either side."

The three Immortals gathered around him in the foyer as he continued to describe the suite. "This is a Partial River View Deluxe Junior Suite. It is Edwardian in style." He stepped out of the foyer and gestured about the suite. "As you can see, the sitting room itself is furnished with a sofa, two armchairs and a desk whilst the bedroom includes a king bed. The luxurious marble bathroom includes the famous Savoy rain showerhead, large chrome fittings, and Penhaligon's amenities.

"Other features of the suite include a personal bar, Loewe flat-screen television in the bedroom and sitting room, a DVD player, Meridian iPod docking station and bespoke Savoy furnishings. Complimentary tea and coffee making facilities are available in the suite as standard and bottled water is provided at turn down in the evening.

"I have hot water on the kettle, miss," he said, turning to Alyssa specifically. "Would you perhaps like some coffee or tea?"

Alyssa smiled at the white-haired man. "Yes, thank you. Coffee would be lovely."

"Right away." He pivoted on a foot to face the two boys. "And would you lads like anything?" "Tea? Juice? Anything at all?"

Upon seeing Tristan's wide-eyed expression, Bremner's smile grew. "I see I may have overwhelmed the young man. How may I assist you?" Bremner bent down and looked into Tristan's eyes, his countenance like that of a kindly grandfather. Next to him, Alyssa grinned.

Johnny smiled, as well, and put an arm around Tristan's shoulder. "He'll be okay, Mr. Bremner. It's his first time being in a hotel like the Savoy and seeing a butler."

"Ah, I see. And no need to be so formal with me, sir. I'm just Sean."

"Then I'm Johnny." Even though he had done so in the lobby, Johnny offered his hand to shake again. Bremner continued to smile and shook it.

"And for you, young man," Bremner said, turning back to Tristan. "It is my role to see to it you have the most enjoyable experience possible while you are at this hotel.

"Thank you," replied Tristan. "May I have some orange juice, please?"

"Certainly," said Bremner. "And for you, as well, Johnny?"

"Yes, please."

"Coffee and two orange juices. Right away."

Alyssa followed the butler while he went to prepare the beverages. The boys wandered to the windows to look at the river view.

"I wonder if I could trouble you for an errand this week," she said as he prepared two drinking glasses for the boys.

"Certainly, madam."

She grinned. "Alyssa, please."

"Alyssa."

She handed him a folded piece of paper. "Don't worry about looking at it right now. It can wait." Bremner nodded and put the paper in his pocket. He continued preparing the drinks. "There's quite a bit of stuff there. It might take going to several places to get it all. Of course, charge everything to the room.

"Let me say up front, though, this should not be your highest priority. If you decide you can't do it by, let's say, tomorrow evening, please let me know and I will do it myself. If you can do it, though, it would be a great help. By the way, do you think the kitchen staff would allow me to prepare a few things on Friday? Or guide them through preparing things if I can't do it?"

Bremner thought as he poured the coffee. "I can't think of a reason why they would not. I will check with them just to be sure. I can let you know this evening. If you are out then I will leave a note for you. Is that acceptable?"

"Very much. Thank you."

Bremner smiled. He presented her with a saucer and coffee cup. "Enjoy your coffee, Alyssa."

"Thank you," she said as she accepted the saucer with open hands. Taking a sip of the coffee, she smiled. "Are you a mind reader, Sean? How did you know I liked strong coffee?"

Bremner chuckled. "Oh, just a thought I had. If I was wrong, I would apologize and correct it. Somehow, I did not think I was wrong."

Alyssa took another sip. "I think I need to justify the list, though. It's mostly food and a small refrigerator. On Saturday, I can't accept any help from you or any of the hotel staff."

Bremner cocked his head to the side. "If I may be so bold, are you Jewish?"

"Yes, I am," Alyssa confirmed, nodding.

"In that case, no justification needed. Accommodating the religious beliefs of our guests is actually one of our highest priorities." He held up a finger. "So please excuse me when I say that your statement about ignoring your request in light of other priorities now has no bearing." Alyssa grinned. "I will see to it that the items on your list are acquired and that you are allowed access to the kitchen. We have a chef that specializes in kosher cooking, if that makes it easier for you."

Alyssa brighted. "Oh, yes. I just need a things to make challa bread. That's the most complicated thing. The rest is simple."

Bremner waved a hand. "That will be no problem for Wendy. She will love the excuse to prepare challa. She may bake several additional loaves and make them available to other guests. That is a delectable bread."

It was Alyssa's turn to chuckle. "Yes, it is."

Bremner took out the slip of paper and examined it quickly. "Hmm, it looks like you're planning on lemon pepper chicken, tabouli salad, kugel, Jewish apple cake, and something else. What is this other thing?"

"Wow! You're well versed in kosher cooking yourself."

"It's my job to know all things about my guests' needs, Alyssa."

"The last item is called carrot souffle. It's something I discovered in America. It's a wonderful sweet."

"I may have to try it myself."

"I do recommend it."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Shopping?" asked Tristan. "You mean we didn't do enough of that yesterday?"

"Not just clothes, silly boy," said Alyssa as they exited the hotel. "There's so much more around here besides clothes. We should get some of those, too, since we are going to a play tonight."

"We are?" Tristan looked back and forth between the other two Immortals.

"Have you ever been to a stage play?" asked Johnny.

"No."

"Then you're in for a treat. They're really fun. Well, it depends on which one. I think you'll like this one."

"Which is it?"

"Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat," answered Alyssa. "It's playing at the New London Theatre tonight."

Tristan's dour expression brighted. "Oh, I've heard about that. I hear it's really funny."

"See?" said Johnny. "Now let's enjoy a day of shopping for all kinds of goodies and then see a good show tonight."

They stopped at a shop called Jones. Alyssa turned to the boys and announced, "I'm leaving you here. This place only sells menswear. I'll be down at Jigsaw if you need me. They sell my kind of clothes. Not _that_ kind, Johnny," she added, seeing the smirk on his face.

"A boy can hope," he said. Tristan just shook his head and sighed.

The boys made quick work of the clothes shopping. They did each come away with a new suit, but they were not necessarily interested in being there for long. They began wandering the streets aimlessly. After a while, Tristan perked up and dashed into a shop. Johnny looked up at the sign. Hardys Original Sweet Shop. He grinned.

 _You can make a kid an Immortal but you can't take the kid out of the Immortal. And that doesn't seem like a bad idea, now that you mention it._

The place was filled with jars of gobstoppers, rhubarb and custard boiled sweets, wine gums, cola bottles, midget gems - all the old favorites. There was also a selection of lollipops, chocolates, toffees, fudges, nougat - enough to keep most children - and grown adults with a sweet tooth, for that matter - happy.

Tristan's face was aglow. After a while, so was Johnny's. Both of them were soon loaded down with sweets, having obtained something from every jar in the shop. The clerk behind the counter was laughing along with them.

"I have never seen two boys so happy in a sweet shop," she said.

"I haven't seen a place like this in years," extolled Tristan with a massive grin. "This is incredible."

"Why, thank you, young man." She looked at the growing mounds of candy on the counter. "But can you afford all of these? And will your parents concur with such a purchase?"

Johnny stepped over and put an arm around Tristan's shoulder. "My cousin is visiting from America. He can afford it and, since it's his birthday today, he's got a pass to get whatever he wants."

"Well, happy birthday. How old are you today?"

"Twelve," answered Tristan.

"In that case, let me add these to your stack." She took a large lollipop that looked like a massive tie-dye t-shirt and a box that said 'Orange and Passion Fruit' and placed them on one of the mounds of candy. "Happy birthday."

"Oh, wow. Thank you very much, ma'am."

"You are quite welcome."

They walked out of Hardy's with three bags each, one for their suits and two each full of candy. Both of them had Cheshire Cat grins on their faces as they left. Rather than toting the loot around with them, they decided to walk the eight minutes back to the hotel and drop it all off in their rooms. Of course, they had to stop for a moment and sample some of the candy once they got there.

They returned to Jigsaw just in time to find Alyssa exiting the store with two bags of her own. She had a contented smile on her face.

"I presume your shopping went well," prompted Johnny.

"Oh, yes," she agreed. "I found the perfect dress for tonight." She noticed the boys' empty hands. "Did you not get anything?"

"We just took our stuff back to the hotel."

"Oh, I was just thinking of doing that myself."

"We can walk with you."

"Okay. When we finish, there are some places on Market Street I think you two will like. Tristan especially. There's also a tobacconist I think we should check out, pick out a few things for David."

"We can do that," agreed Johnny.

The tobacconist was the shop along the way. They found more than they expected. There was a table outside of the entrance with a lady hand rolling cigars. They stopped to watch for a while.

"That's actually quite neat," admitted Tristan as they entered the shop.

"Yeah, it is," said Johnny.

"Now, what do you think David would like?" asked Alyssa. "Johnny, you see what he smokes more than I do. What does he prefer?"

"He switches between pipes and cigars based on his mood. You can't really say, "This is David in a pipe mood," or "This is David in a cigar mood," though. He just picks up one or the other. It's kind of random, I guess. He does go for cigars more than pipes, although he has a lot of pipes. I wouldn't get him another pipe. They're kind of a personal thing. We could look at the loose tobaccos. We could also look at the cigars and see if they have brands he likes." Johnny's expression turned mischievous and he whispered, "We could also get something we like."

"I was thinking the same thing," Alyssa whispered back.

"I've never had a cigar," Tristan admitted. "Only cigarettes."

"These are much better," Johnny said in his ear. "We'll teach you."

They spread out to look around the shop. There was a multitude of cigar brands and of jars of loose tobaccos.

"I know he likes Cohibas," declared Johnny, "but only certain ones so that makes it hard to pick."

"And I know he doesn't care for Punch," said Alyssa.

"What's the difference?" asked Tristan. "Aren't they all tobacco?"

"Yes, but they're different growers," answered Alyssa. "Different ways of caring for the leaves. Different curing techniques. Different tastes when the cigars are smoked."

"Ah, I like this one," said Johnny. "San Cristóbal de la Habana." They came over to look at the selection.

"There are so many types of them. Which one?" Tristan stared.

"How about the La Fuerza Gordito?" suggested Alyssa. "140 millimeters long. Fifty ring gauge."

"What's a ring gauge?" asked Tristan.

"You know what a ring is, of course," said Johnny.

"Yes."

"Ring gauge is how wide a ring is. The number for a ring is how many sixty-fourths of an inch wide it is. Cigars are measured the same way. It's how wide they are. That cigar is fifty sixty-fourths of an inch wide."

Tristan's eyes went wide again. "Wow!"

"Yeah, it's a beast," said Johnny.

Alyssa giggled. "That's why it's called Gordito. It's Spanish for chubby."

Tristan laughed, too. "Wide and chubby."

"That's the one. Let's get it and go. I know the next place is one that Tristan will love."

Alyssa bought five of the cigars and they continued on their way. Two minutes away, they came to Benjamin Pollock's Toyshop. This tiny shop in the heart of Covent Garden was crammed full of traditional toys but is probably most famous for its selection of toy theatres which can cost anything from a five pound note to fifteen hundred pounds. Customers could wind their way up the spiral staircase and wallow in a wonderland which can only really be described as a real box of delights. They could also keep a look out for the traditional Jack in the Boxes, Russian dolls, marionettes, glove puppets and toy soldiers. The store could best be described as pure nostalgia.

At first, Tristan was indignant. "What kind of little kid do you think I am?" he blustered when they arrived.

That attitude soon melted away once he saw the true extent of what was in the store. Even Johnny and Alyssa were amazed. The shadow boxes and music boxes were works of art. The toy theatres would be welcome on display in the homes of some adults' homes. Tristan bought the Pinocchio kaleidoscope and walked out with a pleasant smile on his face.

"Thank you, Alyssa. That was a very nice store."

"I thought you'd like it."

"Why Pinocchio?" asked Johnny.

"I thought you'd get the reference," said Tristan. "Because I'm not a real boy."

Johnny grinned. "Oh," he chuckled. "That's a good one."

Alyssa put an arm around both of the boys and led them down the street. "There's one more place I think you two would like and then we can go back to the hotel."

"A nap and dinner before the play would be nice," said Johnny.

"I never thought I'd agree to that," offered Tristan, "but now I do."

Alyssa just smiled as they walked. They passed a women's day spa called The Sanctuary. Alyssa eyed it with interest.

"You boys wait here. I'm going to book an appointment for tomorrow. You two will have to entertain yourselves tomorrow while I spoil myself." She grinned at them and then went inside.

"What do they do in there?" asked Tristan, casually turning a display shelf of postcards from the open-air vendor next to the spa. He selected one and handed the vendor a two-pound coin.

Johnny shrugged dismissively. "Massages, manicures, facials, saunas. David gets massages and goes to saunas sometimes. I've done it now and then. They feel nice, but I wouldn't want to spend all day doing it. I guess we'll find something to do tomorrow."

Alyssa emerged a few minutes later smiling to herself.

"Happy?" asked Johnny.

"Very much so. Tomorrow will be a very good day."

"Good. I was just telling Tristan that massages feel great but I couldn't spend all day getting one."

Alyssa gave him a light punch in the arm. "Then you haven't had the right kind of massage, my man. I'll have to find one for you."

"Promises, promises."

"That's right, promises. Count on it. Let's get to that store."

They walked for another two minutes before arriving at their destination. Johnny looked at the sign.

"Stanfords?"

Tristan beamed. "Maps. Atlases. Travel books. Awesome!" He darted inside, leaving the other two standing on the street.

"I guess he's excited about it," observed Johnny.

"I knew he would be," said Alyssa. "Come on. Sometimes it's fun just to watch other people enjoy themselves."

As they entered the center suite of the Savoy, Alyssa lightly chided, "And you thought you wouldn't like the map store."

"I can be wrong sometimes," Johnny defended. "They did have good stuff there." He looked at his watch. "It's two thirty. There's plenty of time for a nap, a shower, dinner, and then the play."

"I like that idea," admitted Alyssa.

"So do I," said Tristan.

Johnny looked about the suite. "We never discussed this. Should we leave this suite unused for David and use the adjoining ones for ourselves or each take one and then someone clears out of this one when he arrives?"

"I think the first option would be easier," said Alyssa. "But that doesn't mean we have to stay out of this one completely. We could come in here and use the sitting room and balcony, for example. The other suites don't have those."

"Works for me," said Johnny. "Tristan, do you want right or left."

"Left, I guess."

Alyssa gave him a key. "All yours, dear. It looks like Sean brought in all our bags for us." She pointed toward the bedroom. "I saw them when we dropped off my shopping."

"I'll get them after my nap."

"Okay. Sleep well."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Wow!" exclaimed Johnny when Alyssa walked into the center suite three hours later. "That is a nice dress. Is that what you got at Jigsaw?" Both of the boys stood ready for dinner in their suits.

"Yes, it is," she answered, grinning. "It even has pockets. That was the ultimate selling point for me."

She looked at Tristan. "And don't you look dapper in your suit, little guy?" Tristan blushed. "We do need to do something about that wild hair of yours, though. Come with me."

"We're going to Kaspar's for dinner," announced Johnny as they walked to the bathroom. "I checked their menu. There's not much on much on there you can eat, I'm afraid, except the vegetarian stuff. The other restaurants in the hotel weren't any better unless we dined in the room."

"That's fine," Alyssa called out as she combed Tristan's hair. "I can handle vegetarian. I might even have a real drink just to make you boys jealous."

"I guess I can make do with that for now," admitted Johnny. "We'll more than make up for that once Ray and Paula arrive tomorrow."

"Oh, they're coming?"

"Yeah, I gave them a ring last night. They're going to join us and bring a few "special things" with them."

"Oh, dear. Like what?"

"Have you ever seen _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_?"

"Oh, God. Yes."

"Remember what was in the trunk?" Johnny recited the line from memory. "We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls." He finished the recitation with a hearty laugh.

"Please tell me they're not bringing all of that with them."

"Not all of it, but a nice selection. It will make for an interesting week, for sure."

"David said to show Tristan a good time, not try to kill him by overdosing him on drugs." She saw his concerned expression in the mirror. He turned his face up to peer into her eyes. "Don't worry, dear. I won't let him go too far overboard. We will have some fun, though." She gave him a light peck on the forehead.

"Ah, don't worry about it," Johnny continued from the other room. "Between the five of us, I'm sure we'll do most of the damage on the stuff. We'll ease him into it."

"We just don't want him to be hooked on anything like you were back in the seventies. That was a bad time for you. Remember?"

"Yeah, I do. We'll be careful with that. We'll just have fun. Nothing too extreme."

Alyssa and Tristan walked out of the bathroom. "Okay," said Alyssa. "Let's go to dinner. I'm famished."

xxxxxxxxxx

21 May 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

The men of NextGen called this early morning meeting "The Gathering of the Masochistic Maniacs" for its history of harsh predawn workouts. This was quite a statement from a group of elite men known for being at the peak of fitness. Each person was responsible for their own fitness; there was no group leader for the exercise routine.

The usual people were in attendance this morning. David Ashton, the commander and CEO of NextGen, was doing pullups on a bar on one side of the room. Catherine Fleming, though not an employee of NextGen - she was actually the Chief of Security for Ashton's estate on the Hereford grounds - was also present and was presently on her fifth set of abdominal curls. Valentin Dumitrescu, Ashton's personal aide, another personal employee, lay on the bench press with Stanislav Orlov, NextGen's martial arts instructor, standing behind the bar as a spotter. Darren Dublin, NextGen's regimental sergeant major, was alternating between stretches and a series of katas. Wendell Lewis, the Director of Current Operations, often called the Battle Captain for short, was in the middle of a push up (or, as he called it, press up) competition with the American Watcher, Devon Sather.

Off to the side stood three officers from NextGen, tablets in their hands. The heavy breathing and sweating in the room did not seem like the best environment for an early morning briefing. The workouts started at 0430 and continued for two hours; if the Maniacs were running, so were the officers. The three men, however, had long ago adjusted to this triviality. Even the presence of civilians, considering the sensitive nature of the information they were putting out, was no longer a concern. The civilians, they had learned, were actually an integral part of Brigadier Ashton's team and did have a "need to know" these facts. Also, the apparent distraction of the brutal workouts before them did not seem to be such at all. The questions being fired at them from the brigadier and other members of the Maniacs, at times, were proof of that. Even the American occasionally fired off an interesting query at times. The officers wondered what his operational background may have been especially for one so young.

Captain Gregory Reynolds continued the briefing. "Miss Courtorielle has completed the voice analysis on the recording we received from Southampton. She believes the other two men speaking, besides Aadam el-Farid and Charles Steyn, are Hakim Al-Ghamdi and Rafa Shinwari."

Ashton dropped from the pull up bar and picked up a towel. Dabbing it across his face, he walked across the room toward the three officers.

"Really? I knew about Al-Ghamdi but Shinwari is a surprise. Al-Ghamdi is an influential leader with the tribes in Iraq which is interesting being that he is only in his thirties. Shinwari is of similar age, but is practically royalty and of like influence in Afghanistan, particularly with the Karlāṇī tribes. What the hell is he doing with the likes of el-Farid and Steyn?"

Lieutenant Kevin Wireman answered the question. "We believe his statement about gathering the martyrs implies he will be stoking the fires among his tribesmen for volunteers for…whatever they're planning."

Ashton's eyes shifted to the side. "Shit," he muttered. "The same for Al-Ghamdi, I'd imagine."

"Yes, sir," said Wireman.

Ashton returned to his bar. He took hold of it and pulled, curing his legs under himself at the same time. He hooked his knees over the bar and slowly lowered himself down again. "Any word on the location of Farid and Steyn?" he asked as he began abdominal curls.

"Nothing yet, sir," Captain Michael Grisham answered. "We've seen nothing of them since the sighting at Queen's Park." On the other side of the room, Devon Sather blinked but remained silent.

"And what of Al-Ghamdi? He was arrested at Queen's Park."

"He was released on bail the next day," said Grisham.

"Did the court at least keep his passport?" Dublin inquired from across the room.

"No, he was determined not to be a flight risk."

"Any sighting of him since?" asked Sather.

"No," replied Wireman. "Miss Radway believes he is no longer in the country." Robyn Radway was NextGen's assistant intelligence officer and master linguist.

"Probably already stirring up trouble in Iraq," supplied Wendell Lewis.

Reynolds continued, "We also have a report from Hampshire, in the south, of a vehicle, a van, being impounded after being found with a dozen AK-47 rifles, seven dozen magazines, twelve sets of web kit, and over twenty-five hundred rounds of ammunition. The vehicle also contained ten kilograms of semtex plastic explosive and twenty detonators. The two occupants, Arabs, were arrested for trafficking arms. The vehicle was heading north. We believe there were others or this may have been one of a series, part of a stockpiling operation. No indication on how long this may have been going on. The two men, of course, are saying nothing."

"Damn," said Ashton, climbing down from the bar.

"That is all we have for the "Call from the Mountains" brief, sir," completed Reynolds."

"Very well," puffed Ashton as he twisted his body into a spine-popping position. He rotated to the other side and said, "Let's move on to the Somalian situation, then."

Ten minutes later, he asked, "And how about Columbia?" The three officers began to perspire themselves as they suffered through this briefing. The Columbian crisis was almost as hideous as the one involving Farid and Steyn. Twenty minutes felt like twenty years to the three men.

Finally, Ashton moved on to another topic. "Tell me about Arizona."

"No change on that one, sir," said Wireman. "The Americans still have a surveillance team on the camp. We have clearance through the Home Office and their State Department to hit it whenever we choose. Charlie Company has been rehearsing their plan for two weeks. They're ready. They can be on a plane twelve hours after you give the word."

"Good. Wendell."

"Yes, sir." Lewis stood and faced his commander.

"Give them the word. Go. I'll contact Colonel Harrington so he's aware." Miles Harrington was the Deputy Commander of NextGen. Ashton turned to the three officers. "Anything else?"

"No, sir. That is all we have."

"Thank you, gentlemen. We will see you tomorrow morning."

xxxxxxxxxx

21 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

Immediately after the knocking on the center suite door, the Immortal teens heard, "It's Sean. May I come in?"

When there was no immediate objection, the door opened. Sean Bremner stood with another butler and two white-draped rolling trolleys with covered silver trays, stacks of dishes, and carefully aligned silverware.

"Good morning," he said with a bright smile.

"Good morning," greeted Alyssa, wearing a belted white robe. "Please come in. Forgive us for still being in our night clothes." As if to emphasize her point, Tristan could be seen entering from his suite yawning, wearing only a pair of pajama pants and struggling into a t-shirt. His hair could best be described as "anime hair" since it was going in every direction. Johnny, at least, was fully dressed in pajamas for a change, but his "anime hair" was about the same. Alyssa grinned at her two boys.

Sean gave a dismissive wave before pushing his trolley into the suite. "No trouble at all," he said. "You should be comfortable as you eat. I hope you enjoyed your play last night."

"Oh, it was a joy," admitted Alyssa. "This little guy," she pointed at Tristan, "was laughing the entire time."

"Good. Good. I've always enjoyed that one myself," said Bremner. "Where would you like me to set up?"

"Over here, please." She indicated a nearby table. The boys ambled over to it and sat. "Thank you."

Bremner pushed the trolley to the table. The other butler followed him. "And what are your plans for today?" he asked graciously as he began to serve the food.

"I'm going to The Sanctuary for the day for a spa treatment. I'm not sure what the boys will be doing."

Bremner placed an Omelette "Arnold Bennett," a fluffy omelette with smoked haddock, hollandaise sauce and cheese, which was invented at the Savoy in the 1920s and named after the writer and critic, Arnold Bennett, in front of Alyssa. He added a glass orange juice, grapefruit juice, and a cup of strong coffee. He looked at the boys at the boys as the other butler served them each four pancakes and five scrambled eggs with cheese.

"Lads, have you thought of anything?"

Johnny covered his mouth as he yawned. "I thought we might take in a film. Maybe _Troy._ I haven't seen that yet. I don't know what we'd do after that, though."

"Well, what does young Tristan think of history, art or literature?"

This got Tristan's attention and his fatigue diminished noticeably. He turned his gaze to Bremner. "I like all of it."

"Ah, then may I recommend going to the Odeon Cinema for your film and, since you'll then be so close to it, stopping by Trafalgar Square. You can then walk or take a taxi to the National Poetry Library across the river and spend some time there. If you still have time after that, you could go to the Hayward Gallery and take a look at what they have on exhibit there. If you like, I could arrange for tickets at the cinema, the poetry library, and the gallery for you."

Johnny looked over at Tristan. "That sounds like a full day. What do you think?"

"I think that would be awesome," he said. He looked back at Bremner. "Would you, please?"

"With pleasure, young man. I'll have the tickets waiting for you at each respective location. Under what name?"

"Ashton, please," said Johnny.

"I have a question," interjected Tristan, raising his hand slightly.

"Yes, young man," replied Bremner, smiling at the gesture.

"I'll be right back." Tristan stood and ran into his suite, returning only seconds later with a postcard and a five-pound note in his hand. Just a touch out of breath, he asked, "Where is the nearest post office?" He waved the card. "I'd like to send this to my parents, but I don't know where to take it. Is five pounds enough to send it?"

Bremner chuckled. "More than sufficient. If you like, I can take that to the post for you and place the change on your bedside table this afternoon."

Tristan's smile lit the room. "You are so incredible, Sean. Thank you."

Bremner could not resist returning the smile. He bowed. "It is my pleasure. Is there anything else I may do for you two?"

"No, thank you, Sean. This is wonderful," said Johnny.

"Excellent. Have an enjoyable day."

"We will," chirped Tristan. "Thank you so much."

"I'm glad to help. Oh, and one more thing before I go." Bremner turned to Alyssa. "Regarding your shopping."

Alyssa put down her fork and regarded the butler, chewing slowly. She swallowed and said, "Yes, please?"

"Everything you wanted can easily be obtained. I decided to wait until tomorrow to do so in order to insure maximum freshness of the ingredients. I will have everything available by noon tomorrow. Is that acceptable?"

Alyssa grinned. "That is perfect. Thank you."

"I also spoke with Wendy, our kosher chef. She said she would be thrilled to assist you with the preparations for your meals. I will deliver the foodstuffs directly to her in the kitchen, except for the fruit and refrigerator, of course, and she will be available to start at one o'clock. By the way, I noticed you did not include candles, wine, or aromatic herbs on your list. Do you have those or would you like for me to pick them up up for you, as well?"

Alyssa turned bright red. "Oh, my. Thank you for catching that oversight. Yes, please get them. Would you please get a few candlestick holders and wooden matches, as well?"

"Certainly."

"Well, you've just made this whole day complete and the weekend an even better one. Thank you."

"It is my pleasure. Would you like us to stay while you eat?"

"Oh, no," Alyssa countered. "We're not that needy. You have more important things to do than babysit us. Thanks again."

"You are quite welcome. Enjoy your breakfast."

xxxxxxxxxx

"You look nice and refreshed after your spa day," commented Johnny.

Alyssa, her face even more resplendent from her treatment, was reclined in a chair in the central suite's sitting room, her feet up on an ottoman. She held a half-full glass of champagne in one hand. That hand dangled dangerously over the arm of the chair. A lazy smile was etched across her face.

"Thank you, dear. I feel glorious. I thought about taking a taxi back but felt so good that the short walk just added to the the sensations of the treatment. Ooohhh." She sank further into the chair and took another sip from her glass.

"Did you boys enjoy your outing?"

"Yeah, although Tristan didn't believe me when I say that David was probably Achilles in real life."

"We don't even know if the Trojan War actually happened," commented Tristan.

"There's a lot of evidence now that it did. What I'm saying is I've seen David cut through people like what we saw Achilles do in the beach battle in the movie. He doesn't look like Brad Pitt or use theatrical moves like we saw but, man, he leaves a lot of bodies behind him. I've seen it before. It's scary. Did you know he's even mentioned in the Bible?"

Alyssa looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah, he told me how he got the name David Ashton. It's actually a mispronunciation of Hebrew."

Alyssa sat up and took another pull from her glass. "Now you have my attention."

"Mine, too," said Tristan.

"Mind if I have some of that champagne?" asked Johnny.

Alyssa waved at the table. "That's why there are two bottles. You'll just have to drink from normal glasses."

"Can I?" inquired Tristan.

"Sure, dear."

"Well," Johnny began as he poured. "I'm sure you know that David's Minoan name was Rusa. He went by that name for a long time. He eventually became a member of the army of Israel and saw something amazing; he saw a sixteen-year old shepherd boy defeat a giant with a sling. This boy's name was…"

"Daveed (David)," said Alyssa.

"Right," continued Johnny. "David became a favorite of King Saul. During that time, he befriended several members of the army. One of them was an outsider who had since taken on a new name. He was no longer called Rusa; he was now known as Jashobeam (Yah-sho-bay-ahm) and had become an officer in the Israeli army. Jashobeam was also quite skilled with a spear."

"Wait," interrupted Tristan. "Is this the guy that killed eight hundred men in one battle with his spear?"

"Yes," said Johnny. "That's what the prophet Samuel reports, but Chronicles says it's only three hundred. Either way, it's impressive. Jashobeam was also one of the three who, when David said he was thirsty and wanted water, broke into the Philistine camp and and stole water from their well."

Alyssa finished the story. "And when David learned what they had done, he wouldn't drink of the water but instead poured it out as a drink offering to the Lord. He said, "Is it not the blood of men who went at the risk of their lives?""

"Exactly," said Johnny. "It's not said in scripture, but Jashobeam even married David's daughter, Tamar, a few years after she was raped by her brother, Amnon. When David died, Jashobeam wanted to be more like his friend so be began to introduce himself to people by saying, " _Eheyeh asher Daveed_.""

"I am as David," said Alyssa.

"Yes, and over time that got shortened to _Asher Daveed_. A lot of cultures give family names first and then given names so it was assumed _Asher_ was his family name. Eventually, _Asher_ became Ashton."

Alyssa smiled. "So that's why he has all these other identities for his companies and locales around the world but chooses to use this name, not even his real name of Rusa, even among his friends."

"Yes," said Johnny. "Because of a friend he had three thousand years ago."

"He must have been quite a friend," commented Tristan, draining his champagne. "What happened to his wife? To Tamar?"

"Oh," Johnny looked at the floor and took a long drink from his own glass. "She never really recovered from what happened to her. She was thirteen when her brother raped her. Jashobeam - David - married her when she was seventeen. They were together for twenty years. He says he loved her and she was affectionate to him and tried to be a good wife. She expressed guilt for not being able to have children for him. David tried to explain that it was because of him, not her, but she did not believe him. She believed God had deemed her unclean because of the rape and never forgave her for letting it happen.

"That was David's biggest frustration with her, I think. He could never convince her that she had not "let" it happen. She had been forced. She was just a girl and her brother - half-brother - was twenty and overpowered her. Like I said, she never forgave herself. David came into their home one and found her with an empty wine pitcher nearby and a knife in her heart. He said she had a smile on her face." Johnny sniffed once and finished his glass. "He said she had written "Clean" in her own blood on the wall before she died. There was blood on her fingertips."

"Now I need another drink," said Alyssa.

"Me, too," seconded Johnny.

"And me."

They paused on the way to the table. Bells rang in their heads and electric shivers ran along their spines.

"Expecting someone?" asked Tristan.

"Yeah," said Johnny. "That should be Ray and Paula. And they should have just the right stuff to cure the bad mood I just created."

A knock at the door confirmed Johnny's statement.

"No threat, guys, it's just Paula. I come bearing gifts. And a little elf."

"Would that be Ray?" Johnny asked through the door.

There was a giggle and another voice said, "Yes, it would."

Johnny swung the door open. With a flourish, he gestured for the two to enter. Before him stood two small women in their early twenties or, at least, one appeared that way. Paula Thaler, all one hundred fifty-seven centimeters (5'2") of her, stood shaking her blond hair out her face. She had a backpack over one shoulder. From her stance, it seemed quite full. Next to her, Raven Eastman, an even shorter, younger woman of only one hundred fifty centimeters (4'11") with curly dark hair stood with a bright smile on her face.

With only the slightest of a German accent, a smiling Paula said, "Nice to see you again, Johnny," as she crossed the threshold before Johnny could even speak.

"And to see you, Paula." He turned his gaze to the other woman. "Ray, you're as hot as ever. Are you on the market?" He grinned.

"Sorry, cutie," she replied. "I'm still playing for the other team. You're still adorable, though."

"As are you. And I had to ask, of course. Come on in."

"Thank you." Her steps were somewhat awkward. Mild cerebral palsy inhibited her balance and made control of the muscles in her lower legs difficult, at times. Johnny said nothing. She was walking relatively well this evening. Leg braces obtained through Britain's National Health System were a considerable aid to her. He walked back into the sitting room to find Alyssa and Paula giggling like schoolgirls. Of course, they could look like schoolgirls, if they chose. Paula had instantly found Tristan and was oohing over him. He was soaking up the attention like a sponge. Johnny didn't blame him. He would have done the same. He approached Alyssa. She looked over at him as he neared and grinned.

"We should included Johnny or he might feel left out and sulk," she said with a playful tone in her voice.

"Any time I can get between two beautiful women is a great night for me," he replied with smirk.

"Oh, it's a bit early for that, don't you think?" said Paula. "We're still stone cold sober."

"Speak for yourself," countered Alyssa. "I've had a magnum of champagne and a full spa treatment today." She motioned to Johnny and Tristan. "And they saw _Troy_ today, but I doubt that had any sort of effect on them."

Paula grinned and pretended to swoon, putting the back of her hand to her forehead. "Seeing Brad Pitt in a man skirt certainly does it for me." She straightened and walked over to the table where she had placed the backpack. "Since you mentioned treatments, we brought a few with us."

"Ooh, let's see," said Johnny. There was another knock at the door. "On second thought, pause on that. I forgot about the food I ordered."

Johnny went to the door while Paula stepped away from the pack and tried to look innocent. Opening the door, Johnny saw one of the other butlers with a trolley.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "I'm Kevin. I have the dinner items you requested."

"Yes, please come in."

"Where would you like them, sir?"

"Over here on the table, please. Paula, would you mind moving that pack, please?"

"Certainly," she said, trying to make the movement seem easier than it was.

Kevin uncovered the trays. Underneath were five margherita pizzas topped with mozzarella di Bufala Campana, tomato sauce, cherry tomatoes, oregano and olive oil. He also produced several plates of falafel, hummus and pita bread, and ten bottles of flavored sodas.

"For the beverage options," he said, "we have two lemonade and English elderflower, three cloudy apple and Yorkshire rhubarb with cinnamon, three wild strawberry and Scottish raspberry, and two orange and pink grapefruit with lemongrass."

"Excellent," said Johnny. "Thank you, Kevin."

"Will you be needing anything else tonight, sir?"

"No, Kevin. This will do quite nicely. Thank you very much."

"Have a good evening, sir."

"Good night, Kevin."

Once Kevin had left, Johnny turned back to Paula. "Now to your goodies. Is it the full _Fear and Loathing_ inventory?"

Ray chuckled as she stepped up and gripped the table. "Not quite, but close." Paula carefully placed the pack back on the table, unzipped the main compartment, and pulled back the flap to unveil the contents. It was a miracle of packing ability. Ray described the contents for them.

"We have two bags of marijuana and all the necessary equipment for rolling, a sheet of acid, a bag of cocaine, two fifths of whiskey and shot glasses, two twelve-packs of dark beer, and, just like _Fear and Loathing,_ two dozen amyl nitrate capsules."

"And," added Paula, "a fifty-pound note for each of us to use for the cocaine. No passing around for us. Of course, the only one who would have to worry about anything would be Ray, but why concern ourselves?"

"Wow!" exclaimed Johnny. "You really went all out. What do I owe you?"

Paula waved him off. "We'll worry about that later, kid. Right now, we have a party to set up."

Johnny glanced at Alyssa. "Sean's not coming by tonight, is he?"

"Oh, shit." She blanched. "He normally would for the turn down service. I'll call him and say we won't need it tonight. You go ahead and get things ready."

Tristan sat silently in his chair, watching as the others set up their paraphernalia. His face was pale. Alyssa noticed as she returned from her call and knelt by him. She put an arm around him and pulled him close.

"Are you worried?" she asked.

He nodded. "I don't want to get addicted to anything. I tried hard drugs - heroin - back in the seventies during my...film career. I don't want to go through that kind of pain and detox again."

"Don't worry. We're not going to force you to do anything. Only do what you want and as much as you want. If you think you've reached your limit, then stop. No one will judge you. If you don't want to have any of this at all, that's okay, too."

"I don't want to ruin your party, though."

She hugged him again. "You won't, dear. You won't. We'll have fun because you're here, not because you're getting wasted with us. And if you decide to join us, we'll make sure you don't do anything that leads to a full-blown addiction. Okay?"

He nodded again. "Okay."

She ran her fingers through his long hair. "Good. Let's have a nice party, then."

Paula had laid out a small mat on the coffee table, two zig zag rolling machines, a few sheets of paper, a small plastic grinder and a Swiss army knife.

"Tristan, while these guys are getting set up at the dinner table, how would you like to learn how to roll a joint?" she asked with a grin. Tristan gulped but nodded anyway. "Okay, just follow what I do and copy me."

Tristan followed along as Paula used the grinder to turn one of the buds into tiny flecks of green and placed a thin layer of marijuana in the rolling machine.

"Sprinkle generously, but you don't want to pack it too tightly."

Taking one of the long rolling papers, she wound it into the machine, deftly rolled it to a uniform tube in moments. Removing it, she gently licked along the gummed edge and closed it with her fingers. Tristan followed along and, in a few seconds, he, too, had managed his first roll.

"Guys, it's ready." Alyssa called out.

"We'll finish up after we eat," Paula told him, and they made their way to the table where Johnny handed him an icy cold beer.

The pizza was different to anything that Tristan had eaten before. The flavors more intense, the cheese tangier and the bread base better that anything he'd ever eaten from Dominos. It wasn't long before half the pizzas were devoured and Tristan and Johnny were both onto their second beers.

Paula dragged him back to the table and proceeded to show him how to use the Swiss army knife screwdriver to pack in the marijuana and then the scissors to cut a small rectangle of paper and insert it into the joints to create a roach.

"There's dozens of different ways to do it, of course, but I've found this is the easiest. Now, let's roll a few more. It will be easier to do it now rather than later and you need the practice," she said with a laugh. As they worked, Paula told Tristan about all the other ways marijuana could be smoked or eaten, everything from a pipe to baking it into cookies.

Johnny had opened the whiskey and had poured shots for each of them. He'd also put on an Ibiza Chillout CD, but kept the music low.

"Shot time," he called out with a grin, handing Paula, Raven and Alyssa a glass each, before handing another to Tristan.

"So, we should have a toast to kick off the night. To friends and family!" he announced before downing his shot in one gulp. Tristan and the others quickly followed. The whiskey burned going down Tristan's throat. That combined with his earlier beers gave him a pleasantly warm feeling in his stomach. He had drunk whiskey before but that was cheap stuff. This was so much better, he decided. It was smooth to the taste and made his whole body feel warm. Tristan didn't realize it, but he was slowly losing his inhibitions.

Johnny opened another beer and then proceeded to use his debit card to create lines of coke on the glass coffee table. After a few minutes work, Paula and Tristan had created a dozen joints between them. Alyssa had found the ash trays at the bottom of the pack as well as several of Johnny's lighters.

It was a warm night. The group lounged on the small balcony. Johnny lit one of the joints that Tristan had made and took several deep drags before passing it to his young friend. Tristan still wasn't sure about this new drug but took a drag anyway and promptly coughed and spluttered, causing everyone to laugh.

"Slow and smooth does the trick, buddy," Johnny giggled. "Try again and hold it in for a few seconds."

Tristan took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs before slowly exhaling a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. He took another hit before passing it along to Alyssa. A pleasantly calm feeling overtook him. For the first time in years, his troubles faded away and he relaxed. He was well fed, in a comfortable place, and surrounded by friends. For a single night, at least, he didn't have to worry about sword-wielding maniacs coming to take his head.

One joint quickly became two and was followed by another beer. Tristan was more than a bit tipsy when Johnny took them inside to sample the cocaine.

"You don't have to do this, little man." Alyssa whispered in his ear.

"No, it's cool. I want to… I've just been surviving. I want to live a little. Besides, I'm having fun."

Johnny bent over the table, closed one of his nostrils and used the rolled up fifty-pound note to snort along two of the lines. He stood up slowly. Tristan saw that the boy's eyes had widened, his skin flushed, and he inhaled deeply.

"Oh, man, that's the shit!" Johnny exclaimed with a wide grin plastered on his face.

"Tristan, only do half a line to start with," Alyssa cautioned. Tristan ignored her, snorting the whole line just like Johnny had done.

"Holy shit…" Tristan wobbled a bit and sat on the sofa, his head leaned back. His heart was racing like he had just jumped out of a plane. He felt hot all over and started to sweat heavily.

"That's awesome," he sighed. Alyssa gave him a concerned look, but then turned back to the table and took her own two lines.

"Come on, baby," Johnny said as he took her hand and dragged her into the other room. "Let's go to the bedroom for a bit."

Ray giggled as they left. "They are so gonna fuck like rabbits." She then snorted her line, followed quickly by Paula. The girls lay down next to Tristan, with Ray's head on his lap.

"Enjoying yourself, little man?" Paula asked.

"Yeah, this is cool, I actually feel grown up," he mumbled as he listened to the soft music playing. A few minutes later, Tristan realized that another sound could be heard.

Low moans.

"Oi," Paula shouted, "You could at least close your door. We don't need to hear you two going at it."

"You could always join us," Johnny's voice called back, causing Tristan to giggle almost uncontrollably like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"Just turn up the music a little," Ray laughed from her position. "You know your legs are surprisingly comfortable." She reached up with her hand and caressed Tristan's face. "If only I liked boys… Me and Paula would rock your world, little man."

It was a good thing that his face was already flushed, Tristan decided. Instead of trying to answer, he reached for his beer and finished it.

"Let's go do another joint," Paula suggested. She led them back to the balcony and sparked another. She sat in the middle of them and, for the next hour, they passed three joints between them. Tristan could barely keep his eyes open by the time they made it back inside.

"Here, Tristan, another new first for you," whispered Ray mischievously. She opened her top, exposing her breasts. She took a little of the cocaine and laid back down on the sofa, putting the powder between her soft mounds.

"Go on, little man," she giggled.

Tristan bent over and used the fifty-pound note again, snorting it up his nose. He rocked back on his feet as his head pounded. He swayed a little and then plonked down on the floor. Paula handed him the remains of the whiskey bottle.

"Want to try a hit of acid?" she asked.

"Maybe later," he mumbled after he took another mouthful of the burning liquid.

Tristan leaned against the arm of the sofa. His eyes felt heavy, but he didn't dare look away or rub them for fear of missing what he was seeing. Paula and Ray were kissing, with Ray on top of Paula and her hand inside the other girl's top. The pair of them had seemingly forgotten that he was in the room. This night, he decided, was awesome.

After an hour or so, Johnny and Alyssa came back into the room wearing fluffy white dressing gowns. They immediately headed for the cocaine. Tristan didn't take anymore, but he did take a small hit of acid along with some more whiskey. He had a vague feeling of floating while Alyssa stroked his hair. His head had once more found its way onto her lap.

Johnny was dancing around the room in just his boxer shorts with Paula and Ray either side of him. Every now and then he would take a sip of the whiskey and then pass it around. Tristan saw the other boy place a small pill on the tongue of each of the girls before placing two in his own mouth. Ray had also lost her top at some point, along with her bra. Tristan saw Johnny take several hits of cocaine from her pale breasts.

Tristan fell asleep for a while. When he awoke, it was past one am. He realized that his own top and jeans had been taken off, or he'd removed them and forgotten about it. It took him a moment to get his bearings. The music was still playing. Johnny and Alyssa were heavily kissing on the other sofa and from the way that Alyssa was moaning Tristan was sure that Johnny was using one of his hands to make her squirm.

Ray was curled up on top of the table, dressed in nothing but her knickers. Her lower legs hung over the end. Tristan wondered just what he had missed when he fell asleep. He also realized that the flat of his stomach had a light dusting of cocaine. Clearly, someone had been snorting coke off him.

The French doors were open and after a minute to two he made his way outside to the balcony where he found Paula. She looked up as he sat down.

"Little man," she said with a huge grin. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Yeah," he answered croakily. "It's been a good night."

Paula lit up half a joint. "Want to make it better?"

Tristan laughed. "Sure."

She gave him a sidelong look for a second. "Have you ever heard of shotgunning?"

Tristan shook his head.

"Cool. I'll take a hit and then kiss you. You take the smoke from me."

Tristan's eyes popped. Paula took a deep drag and then reached out for his head, drawing him in close. The kiss was somewhat sloppy and tasted kind of strange, but it worked. A moment later, Tristan sat back and breathed out, expelling the smoke. Together, they sat on the balcony for another hour sharing joints and the last of the whiskey while Paula told him all sorts of stories.

Tristan stumbled to bed around three, somehow managing to ignore the fact that Johnny and Alyssa were clearly having sex on the sofa. All he wanted was his bed. When he flopped down on to the soft queen-sized bed, his head hit the pillow and he was asleep in seconds.

xxxxxxxxxx

22 May 2004

Croydon, England

The two men's footsteps echoed through the empty warehouse as they walked. Each of them eyed it from their own perspectives. They had their own needs for it so they looked for different strengths, weaknesses. One looked from the standpoint of a strategist and logistician; the other from the viewpoint of an analyst, a scientist. They both had to agree before the purchase could be made.

They stopped when they reached the far end of the warehouse and regarded each other. As one, they looked down the length of the building and then up at the second level. They then examined the lighting. With a shrug, they took the stairs up to the second floor and walked its length, as well. Finally, they stopped and Charles Steyn leaned against the railing of the second level.

"So, what do you think, Carl?"

Carlton Pollack brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked about the warehouse again. "I think it will do nicely for my end of things. This second level will do for me as long as none of the visitors come up to bother me or pilfer my stuff. The first looks like it will fit your needs. There's only one loo, though. That might be an issue one you get more than a few guys in here. And there's no shower."

Steyn chuckled. "Yeah, a coupla dozen unwashed sand fleas could get a bit ripe in here after a while. We'll have to coordinate for all of that."

"Now that I think about it, I may put up some tarpaulin or plastic sheeting to keep some of the smell and other contaminants out. I don't need my instruments and components getting dirtier than they already will in this place." Pollack looked over Steyn's shoulder at the windows, some of which were broken. "Think we could get those replaced?"

Steyn turned to see. He shrugged. "Shouldn't be a problem. We just have to be sure to get the place before the other interested parties do."

"When's the deadline to put in a bid?"

Steyn checked his watch. "Noon. Four hours from now. If we time it right and our bid is high enough then there won't be time for the others to outbid us."

"Do we know what the others bid?"

"No, it's a silent auction sort of thing."

"How annoying."

"Yes. We'll end up paying through the ass for this place, I'm sure, but who cares? It's not like it's our money."

Pollack smirked. "True. Let's call Aadam then and tell him we've found our first location."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

Everyone slept late the next morning. Sunlight streaming through the windows served as the only alarm clock for the drug-addled bodies of the frazzled partiers as they struggled to open their eyes. The Immortals had an easier time of it than Ray did, of course, but barely so since they had partaken of greater quantities of the substances than she had.

There was much groaning and stumbling about the suites in search of water and food to sate their need for hydration and nutrients. They stood around the table of the center suite picking at the leftovers of the night before until nothing remained of them. None of them spoke as they munched. They only chewed, drank from soda bottles or water bottles, and swallowed. Once everything was consumed, almost as a hive mind, they realized it was only barely past eight o'clock in the morning. They all staggered back to bed and passed out again.

Alyssa regained consciousness sometime around eleven o'clock. She glanced over at Johnny. He was still asleep, wearing only his jeans from the night before. His limbs were outflung in a star pattern like a surprised infant's. His mouth was slightly open. She grinned at this sight. He looked much younger than his fourteen biological years in this pose.

 _I wish I had a camera. This is very cute. He almost looks like a sleeping toddler._

She sat up on an elbow and watched him breathe for a moment longer, still smiling, before finally turning and swinging her feet onto the floor. She opened her mouth, sticking out her tongue. It felt like a wad of cotton. _Water_ , she thought. She bent at the waist and leaned forward. Gaining her her balance was not as much of a challenge as it had been earlier that morning.

She padded over to the bathroom, shedding clothing as the went. A shower would do her well. She started with cold water. The shock of the rain showerhead brought her to full wakefulness instantly. She stood under the water shivering for a full two minutes before adjusting the temperature to a pleasant warming downfall. She sighed with relief and relished the difference for another minute.

After the shower, she completed her other morning ablutions and left the bathroom. Johnny was still asleep when she began to dress. She grinned again. It was all for the best. Despite what many may say, in her opinion, there was very little that could actually be called sexy about watching people go through their morning rituals and dress. Some people may think otherwise. She shrugged. As she had heard many say, "To each their own."

She glanced at her watch. She had thirty minutes left to fix her hair and get downstairs to start work on _Shabbat_ dinner. In ten minutes, she nodded at herself in the mirror. She didn't need to be beautiful in the kitchen, just acceptable. She checked her hands and fingernails. They were clean. She was ready.

Stepping into the central suite's bedroom, she found Paula and Raven still asleep. She smirked at herself again. In her sleep, Ray had rolled over and thrown an arm around Paula's waist. Her head rested on the woman's shoulder.

 _Another lost photo moment. I really need to get a camera. Or a cell phone with a camera. Maybe I should buy a cell phone this Sunday. They're becoming a thing nowadays._

She noticed Sean Bremner had been there earlier in the morning. He had dropped off the fruit, countertop refrigerator, and other items as promised. She breathed a sigh of relief that they had had the presence of mind the night before to at least stow their contraband in a cabinet, use some air fresheners, and leave the windows open before crashing for the night. She sniffed the air. There were no obvious odors of marijuana remaining in the air. She hoped he had not noticed anything when he had come in earlier.

She scribbled a note saying where she would be and left it in the sitting room. She left by way of the central suite's door. She then turned and went in the opposite direction so her path would not take her in the direction of Tristan's suite so her presence wouldn't awake him.

She arrived at the kitchen with seven minutes to spare. She hoped, being the only other woman in the kitchen, she guessed correctly when she approached the brunette chef.

"Wendy?"

"Yes," said the blue eyed woman, her brown hair held back by a white hat. She offered her hand. "You must be Alyssa. Welcome to the Savoy kitchen. I'm very excited to be assisting you today."

Alyssa took her hand. "I'm thankful that you're so willing to help. This is a lot of food to prepare single-handed. It might be too much for the two of us."

"Oh, we'll have help. John and Michael will be helping us, too." She gestured to two men standing nearby. "They need the experience with kosher cooking anyway. This will be good for them."

Alyssa grinned. "Wonderful."

Sean Bremner entered the kitchen at that moment. He beamed when he saw the two women.

"Oh, wonderful. You've already met. Were you satisfied with the items I left for you this morning?"

"Yes, I was, Sean. Thank you so much."

Bremner walked over to a silver countertop by a wall. "The rest of what you requested is here. I hope it is to your satisfaction."

Alyssa approached and examined everything with a discerning eye. "It seems everything is here. You even brought grape leaves."

Bremner smiled and bowed slightly. "I thought vegetarian stuffed grape leaves might be a nice addition to your plate."

"This is perfect, Sean. Thank you. Will you be available to sample the souffle when we're finished?"

"I am intrigued by that dish, I must say. I will certainly come by and try it."

"I must warn you, though," said Alyssa, "that it might seem a little strange to the British palate, at first, but give it a chance."

Bremner chuckled. "I shall give it its fair showing."

"Give us about three hours, then."

"Very well. I will come back at that time." Bremner bowed and walked out.

Alyssa turned to Wendy and smiled. "Shall we get started?"

"Absolutely. Let me get you a hat."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Thank you for all of your work, everyone," Alyssa asserted three hours later. "Would anyone like to sample the fruits of their labors? There's certainly enough to go around."

Before them lay ten loaves of _challah_ bread, twenty whole lemon pepper chickens, five dishes of carrot souffle, fifty stuffed grape leaves, two large bowls of tabouli salad, one hundred potato pancakes, five pans of kugel, and an equal number of apple cakes.

No one moved at first. Alyssa grinned. "Help yourself," she said. "There's no way the three of us upstairs can eat all of this in one day."

"That bread does look very good," said Michael.

"Don't be shy," said Alyssa. "Tear off a piece and try it."

Michael glanced at John and Wendy and, seeing no movement from them, stepped toward the _challa_. Taking a loaf in his hands, he tore the end from it and took a bite. His eyes practically rolled back in his head.

"It's exquisite," he said after a moment. "It practically melts in your mouth." He took another bite.

Alyssa grinned again. "I knew you'd like it. Go on, guys. Enjoy. You three did a lot of work. Enjoy yourselves."

"It's not exactly proper for us to eat in the kitchen," said Wendy.

Alyssa waved her hand. "Oh, pish posh. Break a rule for a few minutes and have a snack."

With that, Wendy shrugged and helped herself to some of the _challa_. At that same time, Sean Bremner made his appearance.

"Sean, you're just in time," chimed Alyssa. "The others are just enjoying a sample of their work. Now you can try some of it, as well."

Bremner eyed the foods before him for a long moment. He took a long whiff of them, also.

"I must say, Alyssa, these are far more delectable now that they are prepared than they were simply as a list on a piece of paper."

This elicited a broad smile from Alyssa. "Thank you, Sean. You are, of course, welcome to join us for _Shabbat_ dinner tonight, if your schedule allows it."

Bremner returned the smile. It was obviously genuine. "Oh, I wish it did. Sadly, I cannot. Seeing these beautiful dishes, I wish it were otherwise."

"Then, at least, let me offer you a sample of some of them."

"Oh, gladly," he said.

"Would you like one, two or all?"

He looked at the dishes again. "Not to sound selfish, Alyssa, but I believe I would like to sample each of them."

Alyssa chuckled. "Oh, you're not being selfish at all. Let's start with the _challa_. It's how we would start the _Shabbat_ meal anyway." She tore a piece from the already mangled loaf and put it in his hand. He chewed delicately and swallowed, his eyes going wide.

"I believe I have a new favorite bread now." He looked at Wendy. "I hope you paid attention to her recipe, Wendy. This is extraordinary."

Wendy nodded. "I did. Her _challa_ is better than any I have ever made."

Alyssa turned to Wendy and smiled. "Thank you very much." Looking at Bremner again, she said, "Now, the kugel." She dipped a spoon into a dish, reversed it, and handed it to him. They worked their way down each dish until they arrived at the carrot souffle.

"I feel like I've had a full meal by now," announced Bremner. "I may not have dinner this evening." He patted his stomach with satisfaction.

"Well now, hopefully, this is the best part, said Alyssa. She handed him a spoon of the warm orange souffle. "Try this."

Bremner rolled the souffle around in his mouth, obviously doing as he had promised and doing his best to get the full taste experience from it. Made correctly, carrot souffle has the consistency of a thick custard and the person eating it does not realize there is ground carrot in it at all; it is a richly satisfying dessert. This is what Bremner realized.

"And now I have a new favorite pudding (dessert)," he said.

"Really?" asked John, the other cook. "It's that good?"

"Oh, yes. Try it yourself," assured Bremner. The others moved toward the dish to sample the souffle. Bremner looked into Alyssa's eyes. "Thank you so much for allowing me the honor of enjoying your cooking, Alyssa."

Alyssa smiled and nodded. "Thank you for allowing me to spoil you, for a change."

Bremner blushed and returned the smile.

"I'm going to leave a lot of this down here. Like I said to them, there's no way we can eat all of this ourselves. You and the rest of the staff are welcome to enjoy it."

Bremner's jaw dropped. "That is ever so generous of you. Thank you."

Alyssa smiled again. "It's nice to do things for people who are kind to you, isn't it?"

Bremner replied, "That it is."

"Now," said Alyssa, "I just have one small issue."

"What's that?" asked Bremner.

"How to keep our share of this fresh and stuff warm until sunset tonight." She looked at her watch. "That's a bit more than four hours from now."

Bremner smiled broadly and shared a glance with Wendy and the two cooks. "That's not a problem at all. Just select which dishes you wish to keep and which you wish to leave down here. We'll take care of the rest."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 May 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

The meeting had been ongoing for an hour. This made the staff nervous. They knew the brigadier did not like long staff meetings. That was one of the reasons he had forbidden, unless absolutely necessary, the use of slides or handouts during the meetings. They tended to make the speakers drone on for longer than necessary. This meeting was supposed to be nothing more than a capstone to the week's training and equipment evaluations; the daily updates during the morning workouts were the place for details.

Anxious eyes glanced toward Ashton at the center of the table. He was flipping a pen in his hand while listening to a staff officer deliver an update on the status on an experimental unmanned scout vehicle NextGen was testing. Somewhere, some officers had a pool running on how many flips of the pen the brigadier would get before he dropped it. So far, he had nineteen.

"That is all of equipment testing updates, sir. Do you have any questions?"

"None. Thank you, Captain Titus." The captain sat back in his seat with a look of obvious relief. The brigadier did not call an end to the meeting, however. "Nicola," he called.

"Yes, sir?"

"Has there been any change in the "Call from the Mountains" situation since this morning's brief?"

"A little bit, sir. We think Rafa Shinwari has left the country. We don't have a hit on a passport bearing his name, but the cell chatter with his name spiked a few days ago and then dropped to nothing."

The pen dropped to the table. Ashton picked it up slowly. "Damn. That's not a good sign. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. The cell chatter is mentioning _assada_ or _azzada_ , we can't tell which. We're also getting hints of possible hawaladar activity in several locations. It's very difficult to verify that, of course. Lastly, we're getting lots of talk about relatives from out of town coming to visit - I mean lots - over the next several months. That's all, sir."

"Thank you, Nicola."

"I have something, sir," interjected Lieutenant Colonel Byron Culver, the regimental logistics officer, leaning forward in his chair. Behind him, an officer was walking away. Culver held a note in his hand. He waved it in front of him. "I don't think it's related to your "mountains" affair, but it does affect some of our other plans."

"And what is that, Colonel Culver?"

"We were outbid on a warehouse in Croydon that we were planning to use for stockpiling equipment by an umbrella corporation today. The intel people say the corporation has only existed for two days."

Ashton turned his gaze to Robyn Radway, his tactical intelligence officer. "You know what I'm going to say."

"Roger that," she said. "We'll have eyes on them tonight, just in case."

"Very well. Is there anything else?"

There was silence around the table.

"Thank you, everyone. Meeting adjourned."

Everyone stood and saluted the brigadier. He returned it crisply and they left the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

22 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

Sean Bremner rolled the trolley into the center suite, Kevin, the assistant butler, behind him with the second trolley. A smiling Alyssa followed them both.

"This is wonderful, guys. Thank you."

Atop the trolleys sat several chafing dishes and multiple cans of unlit methanol fuel. Bremner and Kevin aligned the trolleys next to the suite's table.

"I think we'll just leave them there and collect them Sunday morning," said Bremner. Is that acceptable to you?" He could not resist a smile as he said it.

"That is perfect, Sean. Thank you."

"My pleasure, Alyssa."

Alyssa's eyes widened. "Oh," she said. "You will make sure Kevin gets to at least try everything in the kitchen, right?"

"I certainly will." Bremner turned to Kevin. "After the unique pleasure that it was my honor to experience earlier, I cannot but share it with the others of the Savoy staff, as well."

Alyssa grinned widely. "Please do. Please have as many as wish to try it do so. I hope none of it goes to waste."

"My dear lady," said Bremner. "If any of that delightful food is not consumed by the staff, I will either bring it up to you or shed my manners and eat it all myself in one sitting."

Alyssa burst out laughing so hard she had to put a hand on Bremner's shoulder for balance. Johnny and Tristan wandered into the suite to investigate the noise. When she regained her breath, Alyssa wiped tears from her eyes and looked in Bremner's smiling face.

"Oh, you certainly don't have to hurt yourself doing that, but you are quite welcome to keep any of the food you wish to take with you. I'd be happy to let you have it."

Bremner bowed slightly. "Thank you kindly, my lady. Would you like any other assistance before your _Shabbat_ begins?"

No, Sean, you've been wonderful. Thank you. And thank you, too, Kevin."

"You're welcome, ma'am."

The butlers bowed again and made their way out of the suite. Johnny and Tristan stepped forward, curiosity on their faces. Alyssa turned a conspiratorial grin their way.

"Have Paula and Ray left?" she asked.

"Yeah," Johnny answered. "They said they'll come back tomorrow night."

"You boys are just in time to help me set up, by the way."

"Uh, oh," said Tristan.

"Don't worry," soothed Johnny. "It's just _Shabbat_ preparations. It's not a big deal."

"I've never done that before, though," Tristan stated. "I'm a Lutheran."

"I'll teach you," said Alyssa, walking over and putting her hands on the boy's small shoulders. "You've heard of the day of rest, haven't you?"

Tristan nodded, looking up into her face. "Isn't that Sunday, though?"

Alyssa laughed along with the good natured innocence of his question. "No, dear. It's Saturday. For the early Christians, who were actually Messianic Jews - Jews who believed the _Mashiach,_ or Messiah, had come - the day of rest and worship was originally Saturday just like the Jews. In order to avoid the Roman persecution, though, they began to worship on Sunday to set themselves apart from the Jewish population. The word Christian, according to the citizens of the city of Antioch, was actually a derogatory term since they refused to acknowledge the emperor of Rome. The disciple, Peter, however, endorsed, the use of the word and it spread. So did the practice of worshipping on Sunday.

"In the fourth century CE, Christian leaders decided their Sabbath observance should be in a spiritual sense only, not in a physical - that is restful - sense and established Sunday as the formal day of worship.

"I think you would enjoy this sort of day, if you give it a try. It might seem like a lot of restrictions, at first, but you'll find yourself appreciating other things a lot more. For example, if you can't watch television, you enjoy a book more or talking with a friend."

"Yeah," added Johnny. "We do this at home, too, and I like playing with Marc and Tally. Sometimes, believe it or not, I like just standing at a window and watching the birds hop from limb to limb in the trees."

Tristan's surprised expression amused them both. "David's Jewish, too?"

Alyssa chuckled. "It is funny that no one else in England other than his friends have seemed to recognize it but, yes, he is. He doesn't go to synagogue or any formal services, but he observes the laws and dietary rules. He's probably getting ready to go home so he can do essentially the same thing we are right now."

Tristan's eyes widened. "When Jack was telling me about his work schedule, he did say that he worked like a maniac on all days except Saturday. I didn't really pay attention to it at the time. Now it makes sense."

"Yes," said Johnny. "That's the day that he sleeps late, lets all the staff go except for some of the security guys that volunteer to stay on - he doesn't force anyone to work but he pays them extra if they do. We usually eat simple stuff on Saturdays or leftovers. They're good days. It's a lot of relaxation, naps, and fun."

Alyssa piped in. "Even his military staff know not to bother him on Saturdays unless it's an extreme emergency, I mean life and death. That is the only time it is allowable to work on _Shabbat._ One officer got an extreme tongue lashing because he interrupted David's _Shabbat_ simply because of a minor issue. That officer ended up getting every garbage assignment for months after that. He learned his lesson. He's actually in a good position now."

"I'll give it a try. What do you need us to do?" asked Tristan.

"Just a few little things," Alyssa assured. "We have about three hours until sundown. That is when _Shabbat_ begins. We need to keep the food warm until then. Check the tray and light a flame under each one except for the salad. Those will last about two hours so we'll need to replace them in a little while.

"Also, decide which lights we absolutely will need to have on. Once they're on and the sun goes down, we can't turn them off. If we decide we need them afterward, we can't turn them on. We've got some time to play around with that.

"Johnny, why don't you go on down to Chess and Bridge and pick up a game or two for us? It's only two miles away, but it will probably take a lot less time to walk than take a taxi. I know Tristan has his Go board, but that's only one thing. We might want a little more than that. He and I can take care of the rest while you're out."

"Can do," said Johnny. "See you soon."

xxxxxxxxxx

Johnny returned over two hours later to find the chafing dishes moved from trolleys to the sitting room table. The fuels cells sat atop saucers to protect the table's finish. Each of the dishes were uncovered except for the _chall_ a bread. The aromas from the food dominated the suite.

"Mmm, I'm getting ravenous just smelling this stuff," he commented. "And I haven't eaten all day. Well, except for those leftovers we nibbled this morning, if that counts."

"Not really," Alyssa smirked. "I think we're all the same there. It won't be much longer. You can always have a piece of fruit while you wait. There's plenty of that."

Johnny glanced over at the display of fruit they had arranged in his absence. "Star fruit?" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen those in ages. I love those."

"What are they like?" asked Tristan. "I've never had one."

"They're very juicy," said Alyssa, "and have a light, grape-like taste. They're very good."

"Can I try one?"

"Sure."

"And while you eat that, I'll tell you about what we're about to do. There are a lot of little prayers involved in _Shabbat_ ritual. Johnny will be familiar with them, of course, but I won't expect you to be. They're normally done in Hebrew but I've written all the parts in transliterated Hebrew and English for you." She handed him the notes and he tucked them into a pocket in his jeans.

"There is one part where each person washes his or her hands and recites their own blessing. You can say that part in English. You don't say "Amen" after that, by the way."

"Why not?"

""Amen" is only said when a blessing is said by another on behalf of other people, not when you say it for yourself."

Tristan grinned. "See, already I'm learning new things." He held out the mutilated fruit in his hands, the juice from it streaming down his face. "And you're right. This is awesome."

Alyssa smiled at him. "And it's all over your face, dear."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She smiled again and whispered, "Boys." She then continued, "After we wash our hands, we'll come back, I'll recite a prayer to bless the bread and then we'll eat dinner. Easy enough?"

"Yep."

"Any questions?"

"So when does this _Shabbat_ thing actually start?"

Alyssa pointed at the two candles on the table. "When I light those candles. It will continue until I light another one tomorrow night."

"So how much longer do we have?"

She checked her watch. "About fifteen minutes. If there's anything you need to do that I said was on my "naughty" list, do it now." She turned to Johnny. "What did you get at Chess and Bridge?"

"Lots of good stuff," he exclaimed. He started pulling boxes from a large paper shopping bag. "Another Go board. A chess set, just in case. A poker set with chips. Pass the Pigs. Scrabble. Jenga. And they even had a mancala set. I think they made a mistake when they ordered this one. I snatched it up fast."

"This will do nicely. Excellent."

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Johnny, running toward Tristan's suite. "Tristan, bring a hat," he called, then went scampering back toward his own suite. Alyssa opened the wine, a fine white variety chosen by Sean Bremner, and poured some into each of the three cups on the table, a slight deviation from custom but only slight.

The boys returned to the sitting room, each with a ball cap in their hands. Tristan, again, looked confused. "During Jewish ceremonies," Alyssa said, "men and boys typically have their heads covered."

"I was taught it was rude to wear hats indoors," countered Tristan.

Alyssa smiled. "It's okay in this circumstance. Neither of you have the traditional _kippah_ , or maybe you're more familiar with the word _yarmulke_ , but you can wear that as a substitute. You can take it off when the prayers are finished. I'll let you know."

"We just have a few minutes. We can go ahead and start," said Johnny.

"I'm okay with that if you are." Alyssa was looking at Tristan for confirmation. He nodded and put on his ball cap. Johnny did the same.

"Do we hold hands or anything," he asked.

"You don't have to unless you want," she answered.

"Do you want to hold my hand?" asked Johnny.

"Do you mind?"

"No, it's okay."

"Thank you. I'm kind of nervous."

"No need to be, but I'll be here to help you." Johnny held out his hand and Tristan took it.

Alyssa smiled again at the sight. She took a deep breath and picked up the box of wooden matches. Extracting one, she held it next to the side of the box.

"We light two candles to represent the duel commandments to remember and to keep the sabbath," she said to the boy and then struck the match. She held it to the first candle, then the second, before carefully placing it in one of the saucers next to one of the warming gels to burn out. She waved her hands over the candles, welcoming in the _Shabbat_. Then she covered her eyes, so as not to see the candles. She began to pray in Hebrew in a melodic, almost sing-song sort of chant.

 _Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, asher kidshanu b'mitzvotav vitzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat._ (Blessed are You, God, Ruler of the universe, who sanctified us with the commandment of lighting Shabbat candles.)

When she was finished, she removed her hands from her eyes and looked at the candles. The _mitzvah_ (law) of lighting the candles was complete. She motioned the boys to approach the table and picked up one of cups of wine. They did the same. She began to pray again.

 _Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, boreh p'ri hagafen._ (Blessed are You, God, Ruler of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine.)

Setting down the wine, she spread her hands wide and continued to pray over the food on the table.

 _Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam,_ (Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all,)  
 _asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'ratzah vanu,_ (who finding favor with us, sanctified us with _mitzvot_ (commandments).)  
 _v'Shabbat kodsho_ _b'ahavah uv'ratzon hinchilanu,_ (In love and favor, You made the holy _Shabbat_ our heritage)  
 _zikaron l'maaseih v'reishit._ (as a reminder of the work of Creation.)  
 _Ki hu yom t'chilah l'mikra-ei kodesh, zecher litziat Mitzrayim._ (As first among our sacred days, it recalls the Exodus from Egypt.)  
 _Ki vanu vacharta, v'otanu kidashta,_ _mikol haamim._ (You chose us and set us apart from the peoples.)  
 _V'Shabbat kodsh'cha b'ahavah uv'ratzon hinchaltanu._ (In love and favor You have given us Your holy _Shabbat_ as an inheritance.)  
 _Baruch atah, Adonai, m'kadeish HaShabbat._ (Blessed are You, Adonai, who sanctifies _Shabbat_.)

Alyssa stepped away from the table and walked toward the bathroom. Johnny followed her, gently tugging Tristan along with him. Tristan pulled the note pages from his pocket. Alyssa had placed a cup on the countertop in preparation for this event. She filled the cup from the tap and poured the contents over the top then the palm of one hand. She then repeated this with the other hand. Before drying her hands on the towel, she chanted another prayer in the same melodic voice.

 _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha-olam_ (Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe)  
 _asher kidishanu b'mitz'votav v'tzivanu_ (Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us)  
 _al n'tilat yadayim._ (concerning washing of hands.)

Johnny released Tristan's hand and performed the same ritual, repeating the same prayer in Hebrew. Tristan stepped into the bathroom, carefully set the notes on the countertop, and rinsed his hands in the same manner. Johnny stood nearby and pointed at the proper prayer for him to recite.

Tristan read aloud in English, "Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us concerning washing of hands." He then turned and dried his hands.

Alyssa was waiting for them at the threshold of the bathroom, a wide smile on her face. "Very good."

They returned to the table. Alyssa removed the cover from the tray of _challa_. Two loaves were contained underneath. She picked them up and held them aloft.

 _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha-olam_ (Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe)  
 _hamotzi lechem min ha'aretz._ (Amein). (who brings forth bread from the earth. (Amen))

At the end of the prayer, she tore a piece of bread from the end of one of the loaves and put a piece on each of the plates on the table. She and the boys then sat. Tristan looked around at the others.

"What now?" he asked.

"Now we eat," Alyssa said. "You can take off your hat, if you want."

"That was very nice," commented Tristan. "Almost magical. Listening to you pray was like listening to God talk."

Alyssa grinned. "There's a reason Hebrew is called the Lord's language, after all."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"I should learn it."

"Stick around with Alyssa and David," said Johnny, "and you will. They both speak it."

"Do you?" he asked Johnny.

"Yes, but not as well as they do. I can just get by but they sound like natives."

Alyssa began to laugh. "Who was telling us about _someone_ being a friend of King David, after all?"

Johnny blushed. "Yeah, I guess he would sound like a native, then, but Hebrew was a little different three thousand years ago, I'm sure."

"Probably. Who wants chicken?"

"Me, please," said Tristan. "What's the green stuff?"

"It's called tabouli," said Alyssa. "It's a kind of salad. Try it."

"Okay."

"That's another thing you'll experience living with David," commented Johnny, "all kinds of different foods. He likes variety. As long as it still meets all the kosher rules, of course, but so many things still do. Like that place where we had lunch. Or sushi. That's where he met Asami, by the way. He'll have to tell you about that sometime. We tried to take him to a Louisiana Bayou restaurant once and the only thing on the menu he could eat was rice and chicken. That was a shame. The menu was six pages long."

Ayssa grinned. "Johnny conforms to David's dietary habits as long as he's in David's house but as soon as they go out to eat somewhere, as I'm sure you've noticed, he goes full _goy_."

"What's a _goy_?"

"Sorry, dear. A gentile, a non-Jew. Since Johnny is Catholic, well, sort of, he's not bound by the same rules that David is."

"Rules like what?" inquired Tristan.

"Like no pork or shellfish," answered Johnny. "About two thirds of what this hotel's restaurants serves, by the way. No meat and dairy with the same meal. On some occasions, David will break that one and have a cheeseburger. That's about the biggest stray from the rules I've ever seen him commit."

"That's minor," Alyssa said with a shrug. "A lot of the restrictions Jews put on themselves are overly harsh because they aren't quite sure about the meaning of the law as it's written so they go to extremes just to be sure."

"Like "do not boil a kid in its mother's milk?"" said Johnny.

"Right," continued Alyssa. "That's rather specific and is talking about goats. Most likely, the law simply means do not cook meat in milk. Rabbinic leaders have interpreted it as do not eat meat and dairy in the same meal because they are unsure. This is a practice some call fenceposting, setting almost unreasonable barriers on either side of an issue so you are absolutely sure you are complying with the _mitzvah_ \- the law - as it has been given."

"What do you think?" asked Tristan.

"I'm very much like David, I guess. I comply with the rule about ninety-nine percent of the time but, like him, I will sometimes have a cheeseburger."

"Really?" asked Johnny. "I've never seen that."

"It's been a year or three since the last one." She smiled. "I've been a good girl, at least in that respect, lately. Why are you looking so wistful, Tristan?"

"Is it okay if I get more food or am I supposed to have someone get it for me like you did earlier?"

"Oh, no," she chuckled. "Help yourself. Have as much as you want of anything. There's plenty. If you don't know what something is, just ask."

Tristan grinned. He stood and pointed at a dish. "Okay, what's this?"

"Those are _latkes_ \- potato pancakes. They are great with honey or syrup or even just a little salt."

Tristan pointed at another dish. "And this?"

"That's Jewish apple cake. It's very spongy with chunks of apple in it."

Tristan licked his lips. "And what about this and this orange thing?"

"The first one is kugel. It's a casserole of potatoes, eggs and onions made with noodles and various fruits and nuts. The orange one is carrot souffle."

"Carrot?" Tristan wrinkled his nose.

"Don't turn your little nose up at it until you've tried it. You'd be surprised. Take your spoon and give it a taste."

Tristan eyed her suspiciously. "You're just trying to make me eat carrots. I'm not a rabbit."

"Trust me, little man. Just taste it. Close your eyes, if you want, and pretend it's not orange."

Suspicion still marring his countenance, Tristan picked up his spoon and dipped it into the souffle. He at least was fair enough to fill a quarter of the spoon with the stuff. He stared at it as if he expected it to attack him. At last, he sighed and put the spoon in his mouth, his eyes clamped shut.

His expression changed dramatically. His eyes popped open, staring widely at Alyssa. He slowly withdrew the spoon. With a look of total disbelief, the swirled the custard around in his mouth and swallowed. He then opened his mouth with a satisfied, "Ah."

"Oh, my goodness," he said.

Alyssa grinned. "See?"

"I'm sorry," Tristan recanted. "I was wrong. That is incredible."

Alyssa pointed at the dishes with an open hand. "Now you can enjoy some new things."

"I certainly will," he said, and began filling his plate. A healthy portion of carrot souffle was included. He then sat and began to eat heartily.

"After that showing," said Johnny, "I think I'll do the same." He refilled his plate, as well. Alyssa chuckled and watched the boys as they ate, nibbling on her own _latke_ and sipping her wine.

It was well after ten o'clock when they finished dinner. They placed all the perishable foods into smaller containers and stowed them in the countertop refrigerator. Afterward, it was not long before the urge to sleep fell upon them. They saw no reason to resist it.


	17. A Room of Empty Bottles

Author's Note: For those who might be wondering, the gift Ashton gives to Sean Bremner in this chapter, in 2018 dollars, is worth about $1,100. The bottle of Scotch is worth about $1,800. The other items are cheap by comparison.

"Please tell me I'm your one and only  
Or lie and say at least tonight  
I've got a brand new cure for lonely  
And if you give me what I want  
Then I'll give you what you like"

"Give You What You Like" - Chad Kroeger, Avril Ramona Lavigne, Dave Hodges

23 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

Like the day before, everyone slept in that morning. Tristan awoke first. He wandered into the sitting room of the central suite, clad only in pajama bottoms, seeking something to slake his thirst. Fortunately, Alyssa had procured two cases of bottled water for this day. He pulled a bottle from the case and downed it happily.

He eyed the display of fruits with some curiosity. The small red ones he did not recognize. He took one and put it in his mouth. When he crushed it between his teeth, the taste he experienced was extraordinary. There was this strange fibrous thing in the center, though. He wasn't sure about that. Should he chew it or spit it out. He tried chewing. It didn't really get any softer. He swallowed it anyway. With a shrug, he filled a saucer with the weird red things, took another bottle of water, and walked out to the balcony.

The change in latitude and its resulting difference in temperature was a mild surprise to him. The 13°C (56°F) air chilled his skin, raising gooseflesh on his arms and chest. The temperature in Clearwater at that same time was 25°C (78°F). He shivered slightly but found it mildly exhilarating all the same. He thought this interesting since, thirty years earlier, he would easily have considered this to be quite cold. Setting his breakfast on the table, he sat and observed the sights below, rubbing his arms slowly to warm himself.

The morning London traffic was heavy. Tristan watched the parts of it he could see from his vantage point as he relaxed in his chair. There was a lot of shipping on the River Thames, as well. It was almost as if the whole country was ignoring the day of rest. _Heathens._ Tristan grinned at this thought.

A small bird, a European goldfinch, landed on the balcony's railing and hopped about on it. Tristan watched its antics. The bird twisted its head, looking at Tristan, and fluttered a wing. Tristan slowly twisted his head, as well, trying not to startle the bird. Moving even slower, he tucked his hand under his armpit and mimicked the bird's wing flutter. The goldfinch turned its head around the other way as if it were now more curious about this strange creature in front of it. Tristan rotated his head, too. The finch chirped once. So did Tristan, who was now grinning. The bird hopped twice on the railing. Tristan slowly raised himself slightly in his chair twice. The finch righted its head, seemed to give him a little nod, chirped twice, and then flew away. Tristan sat back in his chair and laughed.

"That was adorable," said Alyssa, stepping onto the balcony. She wore a pair of pajama pants and a loose t-shirt. The outfit made her look like she was around Tristan's age.

Tristan, slightly startled, turned to face her. "You saw that?"

"Oh, yes," she grinned. "The whole thing. And I loved every second of it."

Tristan smiled. "I've always liked nature. Animals, plants, everything about it. I used to sit in the forest for hours and just watch things; the water in the streams as it flowed, the fish swimming, the squirrels jumping and running, the occasional bobcat prowling, even just the flowers dancing in the breeze. It was all so beautiful."

"Well, now that book you bought on British flowers makes more sense to me," said, taking one of the other chairs for herself. "Is that why you're so good at living off of the land and could spot that Watcher who was trying to track you?"

"Partly. I also had help from people who had other useful skills, like I said before. It all worked together. Like when they said to look for a particular plant because it could do a certain thing, I at least already knew what that plant was and what it looked like even if I didn't know it could do that special thing before."

"It sounds like you would have been great for Special Forces if you had been able to grow up." Her voice had a somewhat mournful tone to it.

"Yeah, Matt said the same thing a few times." Tristan did not let that same tone into his voice. "He said I learned those skills faster than most soldiers, even SF soldiers, and wished he could have taught me more. He said he had just reached the point that he didn't think he was the right person to teach me anymore. He said he could remember a lot of things in his head but he hadn't done them for so long that he was sure the actual skill had atrophied in practice. He taught me the things he was confident he could train me to the expert level on and left the rest for others." He looked into Alyssa's eyes. "That's why I'm here, after all."

"And we'll worry about that when David gets here. He is definitely the one who can bring you to the level you want to be at. Or he knows the people who can get you there if he can't do it himself." She pointed at the saucer in front of him. "What do you think of the pomegranate seeds?"

"Is that what they are? I think they taste great. I just don't know if I'm supposed to swallow or spit out the tough bit in the center."

She shrugged. "People do either one. I swallow them. It's easier."

Johnny joined them. The pair of running shorts he wore looked a size too large for him. He covered a yawn with one hand as he scratched his bare abdomen with the other. He collapsed into a vacant chair and stared bleary-eyed at the other two.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Hello, sleepyhead," said Alyssa, reaching over to muss his already disheveled hair. "How is my boy today?"

"Barely moving," he replied, yawning again.

"Go back to bed. There's nothing keeping you today."

"I might," he said, his eyes half closing.

"Maybe some food will help wake you up. I'll be right back."

She came back a few minutes later with two stacked saucers and a plate. In one hand, the saucers held two bottles of water on their sides and a bottle of honey; the other hand held a plate with a sizeable chunk of _challa_ , a large bunch of grapes, and several _latkes_. She set them in front of the two boys and sat down. She took one of the saucers and claimed some of each food for herself. Johnny stared blankly at the food for a moment before doing the same.

"Thank you," he said monotonously. Alyssa watched him from the corner of her eye as he crunched into a potato cake without any additives. He sat hunched over and chewed slowly, swallowing reflexively. His stature improved somewhat as he made his way through the plate and sipped the water, though, the sustenance clearly having the desired effect. His eyes began to clear. He picked a few grapes from the saucer and sat back in his chair. His brown eyes focused on the river as if realizing it was there for the first time. He watched the line of visible ships crawl down the waterway as he chewed a grape.

"I think breakfast has done you some good," remarked Alyssa lightly.

Johnny swallowed his grape and turned to face her, a smile forming on his lips at last. "Yes, it has. Thank you." He stretched both of his arms horizontally behind his back. "You're too good to me sometimes, you know."

"Sometimes?" she grinned. She leaned over and ran a finger down his thigh. "When is the last time you worked out? Of course, I should ask myself that same question? That day we ran away from those men at the park, if you can call that a workout? We're all going to have to pay for our laxity when this is over."

Johnny's laughter was immediate. "You know full well David is going to do all kinds of evil things to all of us when we get to Hereford. This week is our "sowing our wild oats" week." He gave her a glance and added, "We should work on that, by the way." She grinned again. "Anyway, we both know he wouldn't spoil all of us like this if he wasn't going to make us bleed for it later."

"Bleed?" said Tristan, the concern obvious in his voice.

Johnny turned in his chair again. "Oh, not right away. At least not you. He's going to get you in shape, first. Trust me, though, it's going to hurt. A lot. You may be Immortal, my friend, and able to recover quickly, but he is going to put you through such a workout routine that you will still be aching from it every evening. You'll crash into your bed at night and sleep like the dead and then hurt even more in the morning. Then he'll start all over again only this time it will be just a little bit harder.

"It will keep getting harder until the first week or the first month seemed easy. Then he'll test you. The test will be brutal, count on it. You will bleed then. It will probably seem harder than any of the training he has had you do up to that point. If you pass his test, then the training gets even harder. And it keeps going from there."

Tristan sat stock still in his chair, his eyes wide with terror. "How do you know this?"

Johnny's smile was cold. "Because that's what he did to me."

"Me, too," said Alyssa.

Johnny leaned in closer to the small boy to emphasize his point. "And David loves me, Tristan. He is a tyrant when it comes to my training. Don't take this the wrong way, but he doesn't know you. I don't know how rough he'll be with you."

Tristan pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them. "What kind of monster is he?"

"He's not a monster," said Alyssa soothingly. "He just takes training very seriously. He doesn't pull punches. And I'm not saying that hyperbolically, either."

"No," joined Johnny. "He believes the best way for you to learn to defend yourself against someone trying to break your nose is to actually throw a punch at you and try to break your nose. If you fail to defend yourself, well, you get a broken nose and two black eyes. He'll then let you recover and do it again until you get it right."

"That's mean," said Tristan harshly.

"But you learn quickly," asserted Alyssa. "Pain teaches you faster than anything else will." She smirked. "He'll do the same with blades, too."

Johnny laughed. "Oh, man, he's stabbed me more times than I can count." He looked down at his chest and abdomen. "If I could get scars, I'd be covered with them just from all the times I was too slow when he was teaching me defences against attacks." He looked back up with a grin. "The first time I got him, he actually smiled at me rather than getting mad because of the pain. He said it hurt, of course, but he was happy for me."

"Enough talk of business, so to speak," said Alyssa. "Let's do something. More food or a walk? What would you boys like?"

"How about both?" suggested Johnny. "We've got all day after all."

"Tristan?" She looked over at him.

"Another _latke_ would be nice. I think I'd enjoy a walk, too."

"Okay, it's settled, then. Hand me that plate and I'll get some more goodies from the table."

xxxxxxxxxx

The three Immortals strolled casually across the Waterloo Bridge, heading southwest toward Newington. They had no real destination in mind. The walk was the only real point. They chatted about whatever came to mind, laughing and occasionally sipping from their bottles of water.

They meandered down Waterloo Road, turned down London Road, decided to turn right onto Newington Butts, and then left onto Walworth Road. When they reached Albany Road, Alyssa pointed to their left.

"Burgess Park is down that way. Let's go there and sit for a little while."

There was no objection so they continued in that direction. They reached the park a few minutes later.

"You know, boys, I've always enjoyed parks. There's just something relaxing about them. Maybe it's the trees or the benches where you can sit and watch other people as they walk around. I don't know. There's just some quality about them that makes them a nice place to be for a while."

There was no response. She looked to either side of her. She was alone. Looking behind her, she saw that both Johnny and Tristan had stopped walking beside her several paces back. They were now both squatting on either side of a double pushchair (stroller) with two babies in it. Behind it, a pretty young black woman was smiling down at the boys as they played with her children.

Alyssa retread her steps back to the pushchair and observed the two babies. The smiles and laughter the boys were eliciting from them were enough to cure anyone's foul mood. Tristan was tickling one little girl's side while Johnny was lightly dancing a fingertip from the other girl's cheek, tip of her nose, to the other cheek, and back. Both babies were loving the attention.

"Oh, wait," said Tristan. "Let's try this." The mother looked at them with curiosity. Tristan picked up his baby's little blanket and held it up in front of her face. Johnny copied him.

"Oooh, where am I?" sang Tristan softly. He dropped the blanket and smiled widely. "Here I am." The baby squealed with laughter. Johnny's baby did the same when he dropped his blanket. The mother grinned all the more.

"What baby can resist peek-a-boo?" she admitted.

Tristan looked up at her and smiled. "And it's fun for both players." He then repeated the game. His baby not only laughed with joy at seeing his face again, she kicked her feet and punched the air with her little fists.

"She really likes you, Tristan," commented Alyssa. "You've got a new best friend."

"I think so, too," said the mother. She looked up at Alyssa. "I might have to keep these boys as babysitters."

Alyssa smiled. "They have the same mentality as babies sometimes. They'd fit right in."

Johnny and Tristan dropped their blankets again, causing more laughter. Looking at the ecstatic expressions on the babies faces and then back to their mother, Alyssa declared, "If we could just bottle baby smiles and baby laughter, I think we could cure depression around the world." She added another smile to her comment.

The mother laughed herself. Glancing at the two happy boys in front of her, she said to Alyssa, she said, "It certainly seems to have made these two happy."

"Oh, they're easy. They're like puppies. Give them a chew toy and take them for a walk now and then and they're happy as can be."

The mother chuckled again. She held out her hand. "I'm Laura."

"Alyssa." They shook. "And this puppy is Tristan. And this one is Johnny. They've had all their shots, been microchipped, and they're housebroken, well, mostly."

Laura grinned again. She pointed at each baby. "These two," she pointed at the baby in front of Tristan, "are Stacy and Sasha."

"They're beautiful girls," said Johnny from down below.

"Especially when they're smiling," added Tristan.

"And the laughter makes them absolutely gorgeous," finished Alyssa.

"Oh, my," gasped Laura, the pride obvious on her face. "Thank you so much." She held a hand up to her mouth; her eyes were misty.

Tristan chuckled and looked up at Laura with a grin. "She's reaching for me. I think she wants me to pick her up. May I?"

Alyssa glanced down at the baby. Stacy was indeed reaching for Tristan as much as her little arms would reach, at least. She looked up at the boy with wide eyes and made little gurgling noises as she stretched her arms out to him. Alyssa looked into the other compartment of the pushchair. Sasha had the same idea. Johnny had allowed her to grasp a forefinger in each of her tiny fists while he awaited an answer.

"Sure," replied Laura, her expression displaying her pleasure at the entire affair. Tristan and Johnny both reached into the pushchair, went to one knee, and slowly stood, a gurgling baby girl in their arms. All four of them were smiling. Alyssa walked around the pushchair to stand next to Laura.

"I can't tell which of them is the happiest," she said to the grinning mother.

Laura giggled. "They do seem to be enjoying themselves. Oh, look at that." She pointed at the boys, grinning.

Sasha sat on Johnny's forearm, his other hand on her back for balance. Johnny was looking into her big brown eyes, a smile on his face, talking to her, and slowly bringing his face ever closer to hers. Sasha stared with fascination, here eyes wide. When the tip of Johnny's nose touched her nose, he said, "Boop." Sasha melted into manic laughter, her little body convulsing in Johnny's arms. Johnny back his head away, enjoying his own laugh, and waiting for her to calm so he could begin the game again.

Tristan took up a variation of the same game. Instead of just touching nose tip to nose tip with tiny Stacy, however, he shook his head back and forth, brushing their noses from side to side while he made a soft "Vvvvv" noise. Rather than the convulsive laughter her sister had, Stacy reacted in an entirely different manner. She leaned back against Tristan's supporting hand, her eyes slowly closing and her lips spreading into a happy smile as she purred, "Mmmmm," in an attempt to mimic Tristan's sound. A moment later, the baby leaned forward. Her eyes opened wide and she squealed with enthusiasm. It was time to repeat the game. Behind him, Tristan heard Alyssa murmur, "Oh, you little charmer."

After a few more dips and whirls to get the easy laughs from his baby, Johnny carefully positioned Sasha in one arm and began to walk back and forth. He spoke soothingly to the little girl while lightly rubbing her back, her head on his shoulder.

"What are you doing now?" asked Tristan.

"Putting her to sleep," Johnny replied, his voice still low as he continued to walk. "We got them all keyed up. The least we can do for Laura is calm them down before giving them back. Just make her comfortable, keep walking for the nice rhythm, talk softly, and stroke her back. She'll be out in a few minutes." Tristan began to copy him.

"Wow!" said Laura. "You've done this before."

"A few times," smiled Johnny as he walked. Sasha was already starting to fade.

"Puppies know their own," whispered Alyssa and the two women giggled.

"This really works," Tristan remarked quietly as he passed Johnny. "Stacy's almost out already. The little girl had her head on his shoulder, her eyes nearly closed, her breathing slowing.

"Told ya," Johnny grinned and kept walking.

They returned the babies a few minutes later and thanked Laura repeatedly for allowing them to play with her children. She returned the thanks for their having made her girls so happy.

"I wish I could have taken some pictures of it all. It was incredibly cute."

"Yes, it was," agreed Alyssa.

After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, they said their goodbyes and continued on their separate ways. The three Immortals carried smiles on their faces as they walked.

"That made the whole trip worthwhile," said Tristan.

"Yes," commented Alyssa. "I didn't know you had such a thing for babies."

"Who can resist babies?" asked Johnny.

"All these years and I never knew. Now I know I can pimp you out as a babysitter."

"Playing with them, yes. Changing nappies, no. Hmph."

"What?" asked Tristan.

"Changing diapers," clarified Johnny.

"Oh, same here."

"Have either of you ever done it?" asked Alyssa.

"Yes," they answered in unison.

"And that's why I don't like it," said Johnny.

"Same here," added Tristan.

"It's not so bad," said Alyssa. "Let's go back to the hotel."

xxxxxxxxxx

They were walking back up London Street near London South Bank University when the presence hit them.

"Oh, shit," said Johnny. "Not now."

"Is this a bad time for you, Jonathan Fairbanks? Should I come back another time?" The man who stepped into view grinned and leaned against the corner a building, his light brown hair rustling in the breeze. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. "I'd hate to inconvenience a scamp like you especially when he has company."

Johnny turned to face the man. His face fell. "Derek Korsair. Yeah, this really isn't a good time but, then again, timing really never was a strong point of yours, was it?"

Korsair's green eyes flashed. "From my perspective, it's perfect. It seems we have a little unfinished business, you and I. How about we close that account this morning?"

"Sorry, Korsair. Don't you know it's a day of rest today. No taking heads today."

Korsair chuckled. "That only applies if you're Jewish and, of course, you're not. Come on back here," he indicated an alleyway, "where there are no witnesses and let's deal with this matter right now."

Johnny sighed. "You're really that pissed over losing a fucking card game two years ago?"

Korsair reddened. "Yes, you little shit. It was a high-stakes game. I lost five million pounds in that game. That was everything I had."

"Well, you were cheating. I just pointed that out is all."

"It was none of your bloody concern."

Johnny shrugged. "Everyone else was playing fair. You should have been, as well."

"Well, now is the chance for us to "play fair," as you say, right now."

With another sigh, Johnny turned to Tristan. "Looks like I'm not getting out of this. Do you still have that dagger?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching behind him and under his shirt. "Here you go."

"Thanks."

Korsair grinned. "That's it? That little dagger?"

"That's what I've got. My other sword's at the hotel. Let's go."

Still grinning, Korsair backed into the alley. Johnny followed him. Alyssa and Tristan were right behind him. A wavy-bladed sword was leaning against the alley wall. Korsair stopped backing up when he reached it. He picked it up, hefting it menacingly. Tristan and Alyssa both stood against the alley wall several meters back, trying to stay out of the way.

Johnny kept his back to his friends, his hands at his sides, facing the Gaul. The adult Immortal stood waiting. When he saw no attack coming from the teenager before him, he took the initiative himself. The next second encompassed so many events that Tristan had to replay them in his head to understand them all. Korsair lunged with his Flamberge sword, gripping it in his right hand. Johnny pivoted to his right. The Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife he held in his left hand struck across Korsair's exposed right wrist while Johnny simultaneously backhanded him almost casually in the solar plexus. The right pivot then continued to move the teenager completely out of the way of the charging man as he passed.

Tristan's jaw went slack at the sight of these two counterattacks. Neither had appeared to have any serious energy behind them. The results, however, were now apparent. Korsair continued his charge for several steps and then came to a halt, the sword slipping from his fingers. His wrist was half severed. He bent over, going to one knee and gasping for breath. The hoarse wheezing in his throat bespoke the pain in his chest.

Realizing his vulnerable position, Korsair dug frantically in his jacket with his uninjured left hand. His efforts were hindered by his labored breaths. He withdrew a small .45 caliber automatic pistol from a shoulder holster. Tristan was about to cry out to warn Johnny but Korsair gasped in shock just as the pistol became visible. Johnny Fairbanks stood behind him, his knife plunged deeply into the man's back.

"Good night, sweet prince," he whispered into Korsair's ear. The pistol fell from numb fingers. Korsair's eyes rolled into the back of his head. He slumped into a heap before the boy.

Johnny stepped around the body and picked up Korsair's sword. He looked at Alyssa. "Sorry to ruin _Shabbat_ for you."

She shook her head. "Life and death situation. That's different."

Johnny nodded and raised the sword.

xxxxxxxxxx

"What was that strike you used on that guy?" asked Tristan after they got back to the Savoy. "It looked like you barely tapped him but it completely took his breath away."

Johnny smirked and took a bite from a bagel with cream cheese and piled high with smoked salmon. "It's a style called _systema_. It's a Russian martial art. David found this guy a few years ago, Stanislav Orlov, or Stas, as we call him, who's a master at it and he's been teaching it to all of us. It's incredible. It's perfect for smaller fighters against larger opponents. It's one of the things you're going to learn when you get to Hereford. Count on it."

"Wow! That would be awesome. Do you know it, too, Alyssa?"

"I'm learning it. I'm not as good as Johnny is. He's had a few more years of practice."

Tristan examined Johnny's clothing. "You didn't even get any blood on your clothes. "You got real lucky out there."

Johnny looked down at his shirt and jeans. "Yeah, you're right. That doesn't happen often. I usually have to run off and hide and either wash my clothes somewhere or nick another set from someone."

"That's what I had to do."

"What?" asked Alyssa. "Steal clothes?"

Tristan nodded. Alyssa gave him a curious look. "From the way you say that, it sounds like you've taken one head. Is that right?"

He nodded again. His face twitched. "I've seen that look before," said Alyssa. "This is more than just a random encounter with another Immortal. Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know. It's a long, sad story."

She spread her arms. "We have all day."

Tristan looked around the suite. "Do we have anymore more of that wine? Or maybe something stronger?"

"We have some bourbon," said Johnny. "Almost a whole fifth. And there is a whole bar here in the suite."

"That bourbon will do."

Johnny brought Tristan a large glass of the brown liquor, predicting he would need it. Tristan took two sizeable gulps of it and let the fire burn down his throat. He then looked at his two friends.

"I first learned about this guy in 1971, about a child killer. It was also when I met Penance, although I knew him as Pentan at the time." He told them about the brush with Bauer at the candy story, the murder of Jarrod Rockwell a day later, and Penance's confrontation with Bauer. "But it didn't end there. Not for me."

"Do you mean how Penance made it look like you were killed by Bauer? You told us about that before."

"No." Another gulp from the glass. "There's more. I had just recently left Matt Woodham and his wife in Dalton, Georgia. I was wandering south and living on the street in Marietta at the time it happened."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 May 1997

Marietta, Georgia

Tristan walked down the street, his stomach growling. There was a restaurant ahead. He would stop behind it and check out its dumpster. There was sure to be something worth eating there. Something better than gathering dandelions and spring onions, that is. Not that there was anything wrong with those and the other things nature could provide, but a boy liked a bit more to his diet, naturally.

There was a newspaper dispenser next to the restaurant's entrance. The headline caught Tristan's eye. CHILD KILLER RUNS WILD IN METRO AREA.

"Sounds like something out of The Enquirer," muttered Tristan. Nonetheless, he bent at the knees to read what he could through the dispenser's window.

The northern Atlanta metropolitan area had been suffering under a series of attacks targeting young boys in the last two years. Sixteen boys between the ages of ten and fourteen had been assaulted by a stranger, raped, and stabbed to death, their semi-clothed bodies left to be found in ditches and on piers the next morning. The attacks have occurred between the hours of...

Tristan shuddered as he stood and walked on. He could practically recited the rest. It was all too familiar. _Could it really be the same guy?_

Such thoughts quickly left his mind when he turned the corner of the restaurant, though. There was a dumpster and two trash cans in front of him. The prospect of food awaited. He went to the one closest to him first, the one farthest from the wall. It was virtually empty. With a small "Bah," he set the lid back atop it and looked in the other one.

"Ah, this is better," he said. There was a smaller bag on top. He removed it first and set it on the other can. Opening it, he saw a variety of kitchen scraps within, most of it edible if a bit messy. "Jackpot," he whispered. He wondered if the bag would fit in his backpack.

That is when the sensation struck him. Tristan looked around him. Nothing. Behind him. There. A slender blond man of moderate height stood there with a crooked grin on his face. Tristan's eyes were drawn to the scar above the man's left eyebrow. There was no doubt about it. This teenage-looking man was Matthias Bauer.

"What a nice surprise," Bauer muttered with a deep Tennessee drawl. "I was just thinking about where I could find a "snack" and I just found one." He reached behind his back and pulled a long knife from under his shirt. He motioned with it. "Come here, little guy. Let me give you a haircut."

"I don't think so," retorted Tristan, his hands still gripping the bag of scraps.

Bauer's grin widened. "A chase, then. Okay, so it's deer season early." He approached at an easy pace, smirking all the while, his knife held overhead.

Tristan waited, his heart pounding. He had to let Bauer think he was frozen in fear. Though he was frightened, he did have a plan. When Bauer was less than ten meters away, Tristan threw the bag of scraps he had dug out of the trash can at the man's feet, turned and ran. A slipping sound and curse told him he had successfully delayed his opponent for a few seconds. Tristan turned a corner and picked up speed, running passed a few trees, and turned another corner, taking cover in another alley behind a dumpster. He heard Bauer's hurried footsteps in the street nearby as they slowed and came to a stop. Bauer sneezed once, then twice. Tristan cocked his head to the side. There was a third sneeze.

A car was parked nearby. Tristan crept over to it as silently as possible. He grinned. It was covered in pollen. Tristan swept a thick pile of it into his left hand and dashed back to the dumpster. With difficulty using only his right hand and his feet, he climbed onto the top of one its closed lids and squirmed out of his backpack. He extracted his bayonet from the pack and pulled it from its scabbard, hefting it in his right hand. Only a second later, Bauer came around the corner, looking in all directions for his prey.

He saw Tristan almost immediately. His eyes widened in shock to see the boy kneeling at eye level with him. Only fifteen centimeters (6 inches) separated Bauer's face and Tristan's hands. Tristan puffed his cheeks and blew with all his might, sending the pollen directly into Bauer's face. A mere moment later, he thrust the bayonet forward. Bauer took the full impact of the pollen blast and reacted instantly, his head cocking back preparing to sneeze. Involuntarily, his head slammed forward with the force of the sneeze right into the blade of the bayonet. Ten centimeters of the blade were driven directly into the socket of his left eye.

Tristan leapt from the dumpster, wrapping himself around Bauer while maintaining a grip on the bayonet's handle, twisting and pulling with all his strength. Bauer's screams and mad twerking nearly threw him off. Sheer desperation helped Tristan maintain his grip. In seconds, he had embedded the full length of the blade in Bauer's skull and his twitches were weakening by the moment. Without even a final gasp, Bauer collapsed in a heap, an exhausted boy on top of him.

There was no time to rest. Immortal healing powers were well known, especially to each other. Dragging himself to his hand and knees, Tristan wrapped his fingers around the bayonet's handle, braced a foot on Bauer's chest, and ripped the blade from the man's eye with a furious tug. His lungs burning with adrenaline-fueled gasps, Tristan rolled the body onto its back and stabbed downward into Bauer's throat. He felt the blade cut into thick muscle and lodge against the man's spinal column. The boy then began to saw frantically.

By the time Bauer's spine finally snapped with an audible pop, Tristan was drenched in sweat and his clothes were soaked in the man's blood. He continued sawing for good measure until the head was completely severed from the body. He had been told a complete cutting of the spinal column was sufficient, but this was his first kill and he was taking no chances. Bayonet slipping from numb fingers, Tristan slumped back against the alley wall, his breath still coming in labored gasps. Using only his legs and the wall, he slowly forced himself to his feet. He somehow thought the standing would help him recover. Perhaps it did.

An Immortal's first Quickening is always a memorable event. As Tristan staggered forward from the alley wall in the twilight of dusk, he noticed a luminescence building like a cloud around the body of Matthias Bauer. It started around the stump of his neck and then began to encompass his entire body. Tristan felt a strange sort of electric crackling in the air as the luminescence built in intensity. After a few moments, what seemed like bolts of energy began to fire out of the cloud. The first one or two bolts seemed random but the rest definitely were not; they were seeking him specifically. Tristan shouted with shock and then amazement at the incredible sensations the bolts of energy brought to him. He had never felt anything like it before. It was like the ultimate in pain, pleasure, knowledge, fury, past, and present, he had ever experienced.

Finally, when it had concluded, he realized something else, it was completely exhausting, as well. He needed to rest. He looked down at his blood-drenched clothing. First, though, he needed to find clothes and a place to hide. He gathered his bayonet and backpack and fled the scene. That evening, the Marietta police department had a crime scene like none they had ever experienced in their history.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

Tristan drained the last of the bourbon from his glass and leaned back in his chair. His large eyes moved between his two friends, trying to assess their reactions.

"That's incredible," said Alyssa. "And ingenious. Deducing his allergies so quickly and then using pollen to create an opening for yourself."

"Yeah," added Johnny. "I'm really impressed by the quick thinking and improvisation throughout it all. If you're this dangerous without being fully trained, imagine how you'll be once you are. Oh, man." The boy Immortal grinned to himself. "You'll be terrifying. I wouldn't want to fight you."

Tristan laughed. "Really?"

"Hell, no. If you can figure out your opponent's weaknesses and take advantage of them that fast, I wouldn't stand a chance."

"Yeah, but his were kind of obvious."

Johnny shook his head. "It doesn't matter if it's as obvious as a sneeze or as subtle as Korsair being temperamental. Once you know a weakness, you can exploit it."

"The real trick," said Alyssa, "is to learn your own weaknesses and how to strengthen them."

"What's your weakness?" Tristan asked her.

"As far as fighting, I'm limited in styles. I haven't fought much or against many different types of fighters so my experience is low. I need to improve that."

Tristan looked at Johnny. "And yours?"

"Uhm…"

Alyssa laughed. "I can answer that." Johnny blushed. "He has the experience and the styles, but he's a hothead. He loses his temper. David's taught him how to control it for a time, like what you saw in the alley. Johnny has a short fuse, though, and can be set off quickly. If that happens, he makes mistakes."

"Which is why David kicks my ass every time he sees me lose my temper."

Alyssa giggled again. "Which just makes you angrier still."

"But, like you said, pain is a good teacher. I've learned…eventually. Sometimes."

Tristan set his glass on a side table and blinked slowly. "I'm tired now."

Johnny slowly stood from his chair. "I think a nap is a great idea. Especially after getting sapped earlier. Quickenings always make you hungry and sleepy."

"Another unanimous vote," said Alyssa. "Sleep well, everyone."

xxxxxxxxxx

"There are only a few minutes left of this _Shabbat_ , Tristan," announced Alyssa. "This was your first official one. What did you think of it, other than that interruption near the university, of course?"

Tristan's face was aglow. He hopped out of his chair and practically pranced around the two teens as he spoke. "Waking up whenever I wanted reminded me of home. The walk and playing with the babies was awesome. After our nap, we played games or read books or just talked about whatever like normal people. I even got to do what you said, Johnny, and watch the birds. For a while, I felt like a real boy again without a care in the world. I haven't felt so relaxed in ages. Is this what it's like every time? Do you do this every week?"

Alyssa and Johnny nodded. "As much as possible," said Johnny. "Sometimes something gets in the way, but we usually can do it."

Tristan was ecstatic. "That's incredible. I love it. I wish Lutherans did this."

Alyssa just grinned. "It's almost time for _havdala_ , the end of _Shabbat_ ceremony. Do you boys want wine, as well?"

"Yes, please," said Johnny.

"Me, too," chirped Tristan happily.

They moved to the balcony table. Alyssa poured the wine and checked her watch. She set a special swirled candle in a holder set, the box of matches near it. "It's time," she said. Holding her hands over the wine, she began to pray.

 _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ (Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe)  
 _borei p'ri hagafen (Amein)._ (Who creates the fruit of the vine (Amen).)

Picking up a small saucer, containing cloves, cinnamon and bay leaves, she recited another prayer. _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ (Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe,)  
 _borei minei v'samim (Amein)_ (Who creates varieties of spices (Amen))

Alyssa then sniffed the spices lightly and handed the saucer to Johnny. He did the same and gave it to Tristan. After repeating this, he returned it to Alyssa. She placed it back on the table.

Alyssa then took a match, struck it against the box, and lit the candle. She placed the match in the base of the holder and began to pray again.

 _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ (Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe)  
 _borei m'orei ha'eish_ (Who creates the light of the fire.)

After the blessing was recited, she hold her hands up to the flame with curved fingers, so she can see the shadow of her fingers on her palms. This was done because it would be improper to recite a blessing for something and then not use the thing.

She handed a cup of wine to each of them and they drank. She left a small amount at the bottom of her glass. She removed the candle from the holder and, while reciting the final prayer, used the remaining droplets in her glass to extinguish it.

 _Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam_ (Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe)  
 _hamav'dil bein kodesh l'chol_ (Who separates between sacred and secular)  
 _bein or l'choshekh bein Yis'ra'eil la'amim_ (between light and darkness, between Israel and the nations)

 _bein yom hash'vi'i l'sheishet y'mei hama'aseh_ (between the seventh day and the six days of labor)

 _Barukh atah Adonai_ (Blessed are You, Lord)  
hamav'dil bein kodesh l'chol. (who separates between sacred and secular.)

" _Shabbbat_ is now over," she announced to the boys. "A new week has begun."

"I'm kind of sad that it's over," said Tristan. "I enjoyed it."

"There will be another next week." Alyssa grinned. "You can can look forward to that."

Tristan returned the grin. "I certainly will." He looked down at his empty wine cup contemplatively and then back up at Alyssa. "I was thinking about something."

"What's that?" she asked.

"When I first heard you start to speak Hebrew, for a moment I thought I was hearing Arabic. It sounds very similar."

Johnny had the answer for him. "That's because they're from the same root language: Aramaic. It's just like if you're speaking Spanish; Portuguese is going to sound very similar, but it's not the same."

Tristan cocked his head to the side, a tiny grin on his lips. "I think I'd like to learn both of them: Arabic and Hebrew. Would you two teach me?"

"Sure," replied Alyssa. "We can do that." She glanced at her boyfriend mischievously. "Believe it or not, Johnny is actually a little better at Hebrew than I am. He's spoken it longer than I have."

"Yeah, but you have the more recent experience in Israel," he countered. "That helps a lot, too."

"Looks like it's going to be up to both of us, then," she mused. She grinned. "I think this will be fun. Of course, that's presuming we can fit it all in with your other training once we get to David's house."

The tingling of an Immortal presence struck them mere moments before the knock at the door. Alyssa smirked.

"It's almost like she was staring at her watch."

"Maybe she was," said Johnny as he made he way to the foyer. "You're right on time," he announced when he opened the door with a smile.

"We try," said Paula.

"May we come in?" asked Raven.

"Are you both still smoking hot?" he asked rhetorically, stepping out of the way. As they passed, he added, "I had a pole installed, if either of you are interested in trying it out."

Paula laughed and kept walking. Raven, being abreast of him at that point, stopped and punched him in the shoulder. She did smile as she did it, though.

"I'll take that smile as interest," he said, rubbing his shoulder.

"Do you want me to hit you again?" she asked, walking again.

"Maybe. What if I'm into that?"

"Are you?"

"After eight hundred years, you never know what I'm into, pretty lady."

"Oh, stop flirting with Ray, Johnny," chided Alyssa. "You're all mine tonight."

"Yes, mistress," he replied, now acting fearful of her in both voice and posture.

Raven looked back at him. "Oh, wow. Girl, I didn't know you had that kind of effect on him. You need to teach me that."

Tristan just stood on the balcony looking confused. Alyssa patted him on the head and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "It's okay. It's just a game." He seemed mollified by this. To Raven, she said, "You just need to know the right tone of voice to use with him, that's all. If he thinks you're playing with him then he'll keep fooling around. If he knows you're serious, he'll stop."

What Raven didn't see during Alyssa's short speech were the series of silly faces Johnny was making behind Ray's back. He resumed his humbled stance when she turned again. At that point, everyone else in the room began to laugh. So did Johnny. Raven finally got the joke. She faced Alyssa.

"So that wasn't the actual tone, then?"

"No," admitted Alyssa between chuckles. "But we had you going for awhile. It was worth it."

Raven finally smiled herself. "Yeah, it was." And she began to laugh. She looked at Johnny. "You little imp."

Johnny spread his arms wide and continued to smile. "That's why you love me."

"Hmph. In your dreams, boy."

"You should join my dreams. They're quite nice."

"And pornographic, I'm sure."

"Maybe. What category do you like?"

"Not little boys."

"Try me. You might like me."

Raven looked at Alyssa with a slightly questioning expression. Alyssa blushed and said, "I don't kiss and tell."

Raven shrugged and approached Paula. Slipping an arm around her waist, she said, "I'll stick to my chosen "category," thank you very much, Johnny." It was Paula's turn to blush now.

"Well, you have to kiss her now, Ray," said Johnny, still smiling.

"I'm game," admitted Ray.

"Oh, man," groaned Tristan.

"It's okay," assured Alyssa.

"I'd rather not, Ray," admitted Paula. "Sorry."

"Spoilsport." Raven stepped away. "I love you anyway," she said, still grinning.

"Well, now that everyone's here," announced Johnny, "and we have one full day left before David gets here, I think we should enjoy ourselves."

Alyssa held up a finger to interrupt his enthusiasm. "I agree. However, how about we take it easy tonight and go all out tomorrow? How's that? We have just had a nice relaxing day. Why go berserk now?"

Johnny put a hand to his chin, considering the suggestion. "Alright," he said. "How about drinks and those cigars we bought on the balcony, then?"

"That sounds nice," Alyssa replied with a bright grin.

"I thought those were for David," said Tristan.

"There were, at first," Alyssa answered, "but I had a better idea a few days ago. I asked Sean to look for a few things for him. He should have them by tomorrow. We can enjoy those we bought tonight. I haven't had a good cigar in a while."

"I've never had one," Tristan admitted.

"Well," said Johnny. "We said we'd teach you. Now's the time." He turned around. "Now where did I put that bourbon?"

A few minutes later, after moving a few additional chairs to the balcony area, they all sat with bourbon and cigars. It was a bit cramped, but they were not too uncomfortable. They lit Tristan's cigar last.

"Now rotate it slowly," said Alyssa. "That's right. Don't inhale the smoke or you'll choke. It's very strong. You don't want to try to smoke it like a cigarette."

Tristan took the cigar out of his mouth and coughed several times. "I inhaled."

Alyssa smiled. "It's a common beginner mistake. Just puff the smoke. Don't inhale. And puff often or it will go out. Relit cigars taste terrible."

"Blech," said Johnny. "Yeah, they do."

"They don't taste bad to me," countered Raven.

"That's because potheads have a warped sense of taste is all." Johnny smiled at her and awaited her retort.

Raven lifted her glass of bourbon and glared at him. "Do you want to wear this, boy?"

"Uh, uh," he warned, waggling a finger at her. "That would be alcohol abuse."

"Yeah, Ray," said Paula. "Never waste good booze."

Ray examined her glass. "Good point." She drained it and then tossed the empty glass at Johnny. It landed in his lap. He laughed and prevented it from rolling away and shattering.

"Here," he said, handing it back. "Refill it, puff on your cigar, and be a happy pothead. That much liquor is going to affect your little body fast."

Raven swayed in her chair. "I think it already has."

"You didn't eat before you came here, did you?" Paula queried.

"No," Raven answered, slowly standing.

"Oh, God. You'd going to be blitzed." She turned to Alyssa. "Do you have any food for this girl before she hurts herself?"

"Sure." Alyssa stood, as well, and took Raven's arm. "Come along, dear. Let's get you a nice snack to go with your drink."

"I'm fine," Raven complained.

"Of course, you are," Alyssa placated. "Come with me."

Johnny looked at Paula and Tristan with a mischievous grin. "Amateurs," he whispered. Paula chuckled.

Tristan gawked. "Is that why you suggested we have dinner an hour ago?"

"That, and I was quite hungry, but mostly that." He grinned again. "You weren't exactly eating like a bird yourself."

Tristan giggled. "Alyssa's food is very good. We ate all the fruit and bagels earlier so all we had were the leftovers from last night. They were still awesome cold."

"Yeah, they were," Johnny agreed. "Don't forget to puff your cigar."

"Is there enough to make a difference for Ray," asked Paula.

"Oh, yeah," said Johnny. "There's probably enough for you to have some, too, if you want. Like Tristan said, Alyssa is quite the chef."

"I'm aware," Paula admitted, grinning. "I've had her cooking before and you're right. She is quite talented in the kitchen. I might take a look at what's still there later. I'm fine for now."

"What do you think of the cigar, Tristan?" asked Johnny.

"Once you get used to not inhaling it, it's quite nice. It's a bit strong, though. I wouldn't want one all the time."

"There are lots of different types. Some are darker or lighter, stronger or milder than others. Everyone has a preference for a particular type and some people like to switch between types based on their moods. That's what David does. He might have a very mild cigar or he might go for the strongest thing available. It just depends on his mood at the time. These are kind of a mid-range in flavor intensity."

"Wow! The strong ones must really knock you down."

Johnny laughed. "A good cigar, if you're not prepared for it, is like getting drunk. It can make you sick, dizzy, and have you throwing up."

"How do you prepare for it?"

"The same way you prepare for drinking. Eat a meal first. Another good idea is to be sitting when you're smoking it. Don't move around. Sit and relax. Like we're doing now."

Alyssa and Raven returned. Raven had a plate of food in one hand and a bourbon glass in the other. Alyssa had two cigars which she was alternately puffing. "I'm going to need one of you to help me with this," she said. "I can't keep this up for much longer."

Johnny reached across the table. "I'll take hers for you."

"Thank you, dear."

Raven swallowed her bite of food and looked up at the others. "I didn't think I was hungry until Alyssa made me try some of this food. Even cold, it's very good. I told her she should be a professional chef." She went back to eating swiftly.

"Thank you, Ray, but I've done that already. It's more fun to cook for myself and my friends."

"We're not going to complain," said Johnny.

"What would you like to do tomorrow?" asked Paula.

"Well," Johnny began, passing his extra cigar to her so she could have her turn at keeping it going, "I figured you two could stay over tonight. We could have breakfast in the morning and then pull the stops. We still have a lot of stuff left from the last time you were here. Ray might even want to get some more. Regardless, I say that, by Monday, none of it is left. "

"Oh, I'll want to get more weed and coke, for sure," said Raven, finishing her plate. "I'll make a call."

Across the table, Tristan visibly shivered. Alyssa put an arm around him. "Are you that cold, dear?"

"No," he replied, taking a puff from his cigar. "I was just remembering the last party. I didn't really like the cocaine. It made my heart race, I got very nervous, and I was burning up. I don't want anymore of it. The marijuana was okay, though."

"No problem, dear," Alyssa comforted, pulling him close. "You don't have to use anything you don't want."

"Nope," said Raven. "More for us."

"You be careful, too, Ray," warned Johnny, his tone suddenly serious. "You're the only one of the five of us who is risking our lives with this stuff, especially the cocaine. Don't let partying with a bunch of Immortals make you cocky."

Raven waved her hand at him dismissively. "Don't worry about me, Johnny. I'll be fine. It's not like we're doing crack or heroin."

Johnny's expression got darker. "Stay away from that shit, especially crack. I've ODed on that stuff before and lost friends to it. It's an ugly way to die. I don't want to lose you, too."

Raven's eyes widened. "Is there any drug you haven't tried?"

"No," he said softly, his face falling. "I've pretty much put every nasty substance you can imagine into my body. Being immortal has its downsides as well as happiness."

Tristan shivered again. Alyssa hugged him closer.

xxxxxxxxxx

24 May 2004

Winchester, England

Richard Pritchard checked his notes again and nodded. He had missed nothing from the latest conversation the two Immortals across the street had had. His shorthand, and his transcription of it, was improving. It was the content of the notes that bothered him. He glanced down at the digital recorder at his feet and sighed with relief. That was the last one for now.

"That's it for the moment, Marty."

His partner, Martin Finn, grunted and adjusted the laser listening device stationed at the corner of the window where he lay. The more experienced of the two, Finn, at thirty-two, had been a Watcher for ten years. Pritchard, only twenty-seven, had just started his second year.

"This is some scary shit, Marty."

"Yeah, it is. That's what we get for listening in on the likes of Farid and Steyn, though. Want to spell me for a bit?"

"Sure."

Finn rolled away from the window until he was concealed by the wall and then stood. Pritchard walked to the same point, lay down, and rolled over to Finn's observation point.

"We really need to hang some dark sheeting around this area and construct a proper hide," said Finn. "Do away with all this rolling shit. At least then we can use lights at night. I'll pick up some stuff the next time I go out."

"Is that something they used to teach in the Academy in the old days," asked Pritchard.

Finn laughed. "No. Sather taught me that. He learned it from a sniper buddy of his when he was in the SEALs. He did it when he was a field Watcher. Said it was very effective during these sorts of surveillance ops. I just keep forgetting to do it. He said the trick was not to be cheap when you buy the black sheets. Get the good stuff, the higher thread counts. They block the light better. And get a good staple gun with lots of staples. Then you just have to practice good light discipline while you're in the hide."

"So no smoking?"

"Right. That'll be hard for you, I know. And cover the digital displays of the control panel on the surveillance equipment when your calibrating it. The target might see it from across the street."

"Sounds like he'd have a lot of good tips for Watchers in his area."

"He would. He didn't become a regional director at such a young age, or the executive director for a time, because of lack of talent."

"Do you think we should tell him about what we've learned so far? I mean, these guys are planning some pretty awful stuff. The bus bombings? And what they're going to do afterward? My God, man. That's pretty horrific."

Finn shook his head. A moment later, realizing his young partner couldn't see him, he said, "Not yet. He already knows part about the buses. Let's get some more information before we report to him. We have some tidbits, but let's get some real meat."

"What would he do with that information once we tell him?"

"Well, I know him pretty well. He'll go straight to David Ashton with it."

Pritchard turned and looked back at Finn. "But that's a direct violation of the Watcher oath."

"But Sather still has a military mindset and is a pragmatist. What is more important? Not interfering in Immortal affairs or the lives of hundreds or even thousands of people? If telling Ashton about Farid's location and having Ashton kill Farid saves those people, he'll violate that oath without regret."

"And the Watcher council could execute him for it," added Pritchard.

Finn grinned. "And Sather would stand before the executioner with a smile on his face."

"Then why not tell him now?"

"We still don't know enough. There might be a way to stop all of this with direct action from Ashton or the British military. Maybe just police intervention at some point would be sufficient. We need to know where all the pieces of the puzzle are. From what we've heard so far, we know Farid and Steyn are not all there is. Where are the other parts? Let's get more."

"Okay. That makes sense." Pritchard rolled back on his stomach and lightly tapped a finger on the apartment room floor, waiting for the two Immortals across the street to start talking again.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

An alarm woke them for the only time during their stay at the Savoy. It was not a welcome sound considering the volume of drugs and alcohol they had all consumed the day before. Fortunately, they were prepared. Rather than the head-splitting hangovers and zombie-like fatigue which normally accompanied such overindulgence, they had spent the last several hours of the evening downing nothing but water, electrolytes, and multivitamins. As a result, the only one of them who had any ill effects at all was Raven who was simply still sleepy. Being six o'clock in the morning, however, she admitted this would have been the case regardless. She was given some bottled water and shuffled off to the bathroom for a shower.

The Immortals began to scour the three suites in search of all evidence of contraband. They gathered all of the liquor and beer bottles, cigar and marijuana remains, and other drug powders, scraps, and evidence into one area. The smallest of small stuff went into ziploc bags. The bottles went back into the backpack from which they had originally arrived. It was set on the balcony so the aroma of beer would, hopefully, not permeate throughout the suites. The ziplocs went into a large paper shopping bag with handles which Paula would carry out with her and dump into a public waste bin later that day. It was placed close enough to the backpack so the weight of the bottles in the pack would keep the shopping bag from blowing over. They closed the doors to the balcony area and walked around the suites one more time. No reminder of their drug use remained in sight. They could relax.

Raven walked out of the bathroom, her slightly damp hair glistening. She held a towel in a hand but seemed to have forgotten it, for the moment. A smile lit her face.

"There's our pretty girl," announced Johnny to the others.

"How's our little Raven?" asked Alyssa.

Raven stuck out her lower lip briefly, but then resumed her smile. "You are the tallest one here so I guess you can call me that. I feel heavenly. That wide rainfall showerhead is incredible. I didn't want to leave it. And the marble floors and counters are gorgeous."

"I'm glad you're awake now. We should have time to take showers, too, and dress before breakfast gets here." Paula, Tristan and Johnny each began to move toward a bathroom upon hearing that suggestion.

"When is that?"

"Seven thirty. Forty-five minutes from now." Alyssa stepped toward Raven and took her arm, gently pulling her forward so Paula could enter the bathroom unobstructed.

"But we haven't even ordered it yet."

"I ordered it last night. I just kept it simple. Lots of pancakes, eggs, orange juice, and coffee for everyone. It will keep us until David gets here for lunch."

"Daddy Warbucks, you mean?"

Alyssa grinned. "I wouldn't suggest calling him that, for several reasons, but yes."

Raven's excitement grew. "Please tell me he has an Indian bodyguard named Punjab."

"No," said Alyssa, laughing. "He does have an aide named Valentin, or Val, for short. He's Romanian and quite tough. I guess you could call him a bodyguard, too, since he's both a martial artist and a good shot with a pistol. Of course, he can't carry one in Britain. Such a shame. Anyway, we'll have lunch when David gets here. It will be a nice one. By the way, we have all the remains of the party on the balcony. Can you and Paula take it out and deposit it in a bin somewhere away from the hotel after breakfast?"

"Sure."

xxxxxxxxxx

Sean Bremner knocked on the door shortly before eleven o'clock. "It's Sean. May I come in?" he called.

"Yes," said Alyssa.

He opened the door and leaned inside. "Hello, Alyssa," he beamed. "I have some lads with me with a larger table and extra chairs for your lunch this afternoon. We're just going to remove this table and replace it with this one. Is that alright?"

"Yes, Sean. Come on in. Do what you need to do." She moved to clear the table of the few items on top of it.

"Thank you so much." He stepped into the foyer and motioned to the other men. "Careful, lads," he cautioned softly as four butlers maneuvered a table through the doorway. "Don't scratch it."

Once through the door and passed the foyer, the rest was easy. They brought the table into the sitting area and placed it to the side. Two of them then walked to the current table and took the chairs out of the way. "Good morning, ma'am," they each said to her with a pleasant smile.

"Good morning," she said, returning the smile. "Thank you for doing this."

"Not a problem, ma'am," assured one of the men. The two waited for the others and each took a corner of the table. Bremner stood aside as they carried it out, nodding approvingly. As they filed back into the room, he stepped into the hallway and returned carrying two chairs stacked on top of each other. He placed them at the edge of the foyer and returned to the hallway for the other pair.

Alyssa smiled to herself. _It's good to see a boss who's not happy to just stand by and watch,_ she thought.

The butlers positioned the table into its proper place and put the chairs around it. Considering the size of the sitting room, the new table still seemed appropriate. It would also fit the larger lunch party perfectly. Alyssa nodded her approval.

"That's perfect, Sean," she said, turning to face the head butler. "Thank you very much."

Bremner gave her his most charming smile. "It is our pleasure to accommodate, Alyssa." Turning briefly to the other butlers, he said, "That will be all, lads. Please take care of the other table. Thank you." Facing Alyssa again, he added, "I was also able to acquire all of the other items you requested for your new guest, Mr. Ashton, when he arrives," Bremner checked his watch, "in a few minutes."

Alyssa looked at her watch, too. "Yes, he said he'd be here at eleven thirty."

"I'll go down and meet him and bring him up to your suite. Then I will serve lunch."

"Wonderful." Alyssa's voice displayed her appreciation.

"And, per your request, I have cleared my schedule for that time so I may spend it here with you."

"Even better," she said. "I was worried about that. David said he was wanting to meet you and was hoping you would have lunch with us."

Bremner lowered his head slightly, his cheeks blushing. "He is a well-known man in certain circles. My brother-in-law is an officer in his unit. When I heard about his request, there was no way I could refuse."

"Thank you, Sean. I'll see you soon."

xxxxxxxxxx

David Ashton walked through the rotating door into the massive lobby of the Savoy at eleven thirty-three. He carried a small white paper gift bag in one hand, its contents concealed by thin tissue paper. He stood and surveyed the hotel appraisingly. It had been over fifty years since he last set foot in the establishment. A lot had changed; a lot had not. He smirked. So many memories. Behind him, Valentin Dumitrescu, his imposing personal aide, entered through the door, as well.

"Nice place," said Val.

"Yes, it is," agreed Ashton. "The hotel of kings."

"Mr. Ashton?" a voice inquired.

Ashton turned to see butler of about sixty approaching him at a brisk pace, a pleasant smile on his face.

"Yes," he said, adopting a smile himself.

"Welcome to the Savoy, Mr. Ashton," entreated the butler, extending his hand. "I am Sean Bremner, the head butler of the Savoy. I will be attending to all of your needs."

Ashton shook his hand. "Hello, Sean. Thank you very much. I could use the help in such a massive place."

Bremner looked up at Dumitrescu. "And you must be Mr. Valentin Dumitrescu. Am I correct?"

Val grinned. "Yes. I'm impressed. Very few people pronounce my name correctly the first time."

Bremner chuckled and offered his hand. "It's considered bad form here to mispronounce a guest's name, Mr. Dumitrescu."

As they shook, Val laughed. "Val, please, Mr. Bremner."

Bremner smiled up at the tall man. "Then I must ask the same. Please call me Sean."

"Good morning, Sean."

Bremner motioned to a group of nearby butlers. He then looked at Ashton inquiringly. "The guest list said you had one other gentleman reserved for this evening, a Mr. Pratt?"

"George is parking the car. He will be here momentarily," answered Ashton. He looked behind him. "Ah, there he is."

Bremner looked around Ashton to a fit man in his late thirties approaching the door. As he came through the door, the two butlers Bremner had signalled arrived.

"Welcome to the Savoy, Mr. Pratt," said Bremner, again offering his hand and a smile.

"Thank you very much," answered George, accepting the handshake.

"George," said Ashton. "You and Val enjoy yourselves tonight. I've reserved rooms for you. You can eat at the restaurants or dine in the rooms, if you want. If you dine at the restaurants, just have them bill it to your rooms. Will that be a problem?" He looked at Bremner.

"No, sir, not at all. If they give you any huff about it, just have them call me. Sean Bremner. Or they can talk to Mr. Tranchan, the manager of the Savoy. He will handle it."

Ashton grinned. "I don't think it will come to that. Anyway, you two enjoy yourselves tonight. We'll leave after breakfast tomorrow. Let's say eleven hundred."

"Yes, sir," they said together.

Watching the two men and considering the way Ashton spoke to them, Bremner almost expected them to snap to the position of attention as they responded. He smiled again and gestured to the two butlers.

"These two will guide you to your rooms and take care of any needs you may have. They will also bring up any baggage you may have brought with you. Enjoy your stay, gentlemen."

"Thank you," said Val.

"Thank you very much," said George.

Turning to Ashton, Bremner said, "Mr. Ashton, shall I take you up to see your family?"

"Yes, please."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Here we are, sir," said Bremner, knocking on the door. "It's Sean. May I come in?"

"Yes," answered Johnny.

Bremner opened the door and entered, stepping aside to make way for Ashton while he held the door. "Mr. Ashton," he said. "Your family awaits."

"Thank you, Sean," Ashton grinned as he crossed the threshold. He was barely into the foyer when there was a joyous shout.

"David."

Johnny came running across the suite and slammed into him, the embrace nearly taking him off his feet. Ashton laughed while he simultaneously fought for balance. Behind him, Bremner chuckled.

"I'll leave you to get reacquainted, sir, and I'll return momentarily with lunch."

"Thank you, Sean," Ashton replied, turning his head to face the butler. "We'll see you soon."

Bremner bowed and left the room. Ashton looked down at the smiling boy still wrapped around his waist and mussed his hair. "You little scamp, you knew I was here before there was even a knock at the door, silly boy."

Johnny squeezed him tighter. "I knew _someone_ was here, but you never know who until the door actually opens."

"Fair enough," Ashton agreed. Johnny released him so he could enter the suite. The others stood nearby, enjoying the show. Alyssa approached him next, giving him a hug, as well, though without the bodyslamming energy Johnny had.

"It's great to see you again, David."

Ashton returned the embrace, running one hand along her back. "You say that like it's been years, not days."

"Sometimes days can seem like years."

"Even though you called me almost every night?"

"Let a girl dream," she said, stepping back and grinning.

"Alright," he said complicitly, returning the grin.

Ashton turned to face Tristan who stood nervously two meters away. "Tristan," he said in a kind voice. "It's good to see you again. Did you enjoy yourself?"

Tristan looked up until his eyes made contact with Ashton's. "Yes, si…" He stopped himself before he said, "sir." "Yes, I did. Thank you very much. I had a lot of fun."

"We told him he'd pay for it later," said Johnny.

Ashton laughed once, more of an exhalation of air accompanied by a grin, but didn't refute the comment. Alyssa stepped up and motioned toward the other women in the room.

"This," she said, gesturing toward Paula, "is Paula Thaler. She's right up your alley, David. She's an economist."

Paula stepped forward, her hand extended. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Ashton."

Picking up on her accent, Ashton answered, " _Das Vergnügen gehört mir, Frau Thaler. Oder ist es Fräulein?"_ (The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Thaler. Or is it Miss?)

Everyone in the room except Raven chuckled.

" _Es ist Fräulein. Ich bin nicht verheiratet."_ (It's miss. I'm not married.)

" _Hmm. Düsseldorf?"_ ( _Hmm. Düsseldorf?_ )

" _Sehr gut, Herr Ashton."_ (Very good, Mister Ashton.)

" _Ich dachte, ich hätte einen westlichen Akzent entdeckt. Schön zu wissen, dass meine Ohren immer noch funktionieren."_ (I thought I detected a western accent. Nice to know my ears still work.)

"What just happened?" asked Raven.

"David's flirting," answered Johnny.

"Oh, behave," said Alyssa. "He's being polite." She motioned to Raven. "And this," she continued, "is Raven Eastman."

"A pleasure, my lady," said Ashton, stepping to her and taking her offered hand. "I was commenting on Ms. Thaler's accent. And from what I detect of yours based on your few words, I would say you are from the midwestern United States."

"Oh, wow," replied Raven. "They told me you were good at things like this." She grinned. "But just how good are you? Can you guess which state?"

"Now that I have a little more to work with, I would say you are from Michigan, the southern part, probably the Lansing area. You've been in London a while, though, I'd say two years, and that's muddled your accent a bit. You're starting to sound just slightly more British than American."

Ashton looked back at Johnny and asked in German, " _Glaubst du, sie würde verbesserte Zahnspangen für ihre Beine akzeptieren?"_ (Do you think she'd accept improved braces for her legs?)

" _Ich denke, das würde ihr gefallen."_ (I think she'd like that.)

" _Erinnere mich morgen daran, es Val zu erzählen."_ (Tomorrow, remind me to tell Val.)

" _Wird besorgt."_ (Will do.)

This time everyone in the room, again with the exception of Raven, looked at Ashton with huge smiles.

Once more, Raven asked Alyssa, "What have I missed this time? I feel like I've just been left out of a big secret."

"You kind of have, dear. Don't worry about it. Let's get ready for lunch."

"That reminds me," said Ashton. "I need to put this away." He walked over to an overhead cabinet, opened one of them, and put the gift bag inside. A knock sounded at the door just as he closed the cabinet.

"It's Sean. May I come in?"

"Yes," answered Ashton.

Bremner opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Ashton. I have lunch for you."

"Yes, Sean. Please come in."

Bremner pushed a white cloth-draped trolley through the door, closely followed by two other butlers with trolleys.

"I presume you would like to dine at the table?" asked Bremner.

"Yes, please," said Ashton. "It smells delightful."

"I hope so," replied Alyssa as the others took their seats at the table. "I put a lot of thought into the order and, of course, the chefs here are very talented."

"Thank you," said Bremner as the brought the trolleys alongside the table.

"Now, Sean," asked Ashton, still standing, "were you able to get authorization to dine with us this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir," Bremner answered. "Of course, it is not our usual policy here, but Mr. Tranchan granted me an exception based on your status with the British government and another interesting connection."

"Oh?" said Ashton. "What would that be?"

"Colonel Niles Harrington, your deputy commander, is my brother-in-law, and a benefactor of the Savoy," Bremner said with a grin.

Ashton laughed aloud. "Is that a fact? I had no idea. Outstanding. Well, please be seated. Let these two gentlemen serve you for a change. You can judge their performance, of course. I won't deny you that."

Bremner laughed and took a seat. Ashton motioned to the two butlers. "Gentlemen, if you please? Would you like assistance?"

"No, thank you, sir," answered one of them. "We appreciate the offer, though."

They removed the covers from the first set of dishes. "For starters (appetizers), we have smoked Somerset duck breast, shaved asparagus, and watercress salad."

The two men set the dishes carefully in front of the six guests and their boss. They added cups of Sandows cold brew coffee to the side of each dish.

"We also have Alphonse Mellot La Moussiere Sancerre Blanc, apple juice, and cranberry juice, for those who are interested," offered the second butler.

"I'll have the wine, please," said Ashton.

"For me, as well, please, lads," added Bremner.

"And for me, please," said Alyssa.

Paula also opted for wine. Raven, Johnny, and Tristan chose one of of the juices. The conversation was light, mostly Ashton asking Bremner about his interests and work at the Savoy. Bremner turned out to be as skilled a conversationalist as he was a butler. The others at the table found themselves enraptured even if he was talking about something as mundane as the proper way to iron a shirt sleeve.

When the starter was finished, Ashton looked at Bremner with a smirk. "I do hope they warned you that I like large lunches. Knowing Alyssa and seeing these trolleys, we'll be here for a while."

Bremner smiled. "Oh, yes, sir. I prepared for this. My breakfast this morning was a cup of coffee so I am ravenous."

"Good." Turning his head, he said, "Round two, please, gentlemen."

After the butlers had served the second course - Scottish smoked salmon with lemon coulis, confit egg yolk, pickled shallots, crispy capers, and citrus croute - Ashton's face grew pensive. He looked at Bremner then over at the butlers again. "What do you think, Sean? It seems to me these two men could be far more productive elsewhere? Why should they stand here watching a bunch of people eat when we could just as easily serve ourselves? I'm sure they find it boring themselves, as well. What do you men think?"

The butlers stood silently. Bremner just smiled.

"It's part of their job, sir. Some of our guests are practically helpless without their help and others are more independent. Savoy butlers are trained to be completely flexible to the needs of the guest. Our motto is, "We will do anything for a guest as long as it's legal."" If you would like them to stay and serve, they'll stay; if you would like them to leave, they'll leave. It's up to you."

"Well, in that case," he turned back to the butlers, "thank you, gentlemen. We'll take care of it from here. Have a nice day."

The butlers smiled and bowed. "Have a good day, sir," they each said and departed.

Once they were gone, Ashton said, "That's better. Sometimes it's nice to be spoiled but we're only going to get slower and lazier the longer we eat. No sense in them just standing there." He faced Bremner. "And now that they're gone, please call me David."

"Well, nice to meet you again, David," said Bremner, offering his hand again. They shook.

They continued their conversation through the main course, chicken curry with basmati rice, and poppadoms (thin, crisp, disc-shaped bread). Topics ranged from Bremner's work, to Tristan and Johnny's museum trips, playing with babies, shopping, Tristan's mastery of Go and Bremner's subsequent questions - and interest - about the game, and Tristan's first _Shabbat_ experience. Bremner followed up with rave reviews of Alyssa's lessons to the Savoy cooking staff and the whole staff's thoughts of the food she left for them. Alyssa could not hide her smile of satisfaction by the end of it.

Bremner excused himself briefly while Alyssa and Johnny served dessert, a bowl of wild berry sorbet and a bottle of cloudy apple and Yorkshire rhubarb with cinnamon soda. The toilet in the bathroom flushed and there was the sound of running water from the sink. A minute later, Bremner returned, adjusting his jacket.

"I like the containers you used to keep the sorbet cold," said Johnny. "That's neat."

"Well, it would be a shame if it all melted by the time you wanted to eat it. Not quite as fun drinking your sorbet, is it?"

Tristan giggled. "No, it's not." He grinned. "Slurp your sorbet now."

Everyone chuckled. "I like this soda, too," Tristan said. "There are some interesting flavors here. You'd never find this at home."

"Oh, there has to be some way to get it. The internet perhaps," suggested Bremner.

"I'm pretty good with all things computer and the internet," said Tristan. "I could look. I don't think this is sold anywhere in the States."

"That's okay," Johnny said. "You'll be staying here for a little while. "We can get more for you."

"That would be great," Tristan added with a smile, sipping from his bottle.

Ashton looked up from his bowl. "Someone's coming to the door," he said.

"You have good ears," Bremner remarked just before the knock. He stood to answer it. "I'll get that."

Johnny glanced at Ashton. " _Haragei?"_

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

"It's a martial arts concept, very advanced. It's said that it enables the practitioner to sense threats or anticipate an opponent's movements."

"Or someone coming to a door?" said Raven.

"Yes," said Ashton.

"Even on that plush carpet of theirs?" asked Paula.

"Yes," Ashton repeated matter-of-factly.

"You'll have to teach me that someday, David," said Alyssa.

"You'll have to stick around for more than a few months at a time, then. It takes many years to learn."

Johnny added, "It can also be a leadership technique, direct orders to subordinates with subtle, non-verbal signals." He looked at Alyssa. "Have you noticed how some of the people in his unit who have been there awhile just start doing things before he even tells them to do it out loud, especially people like Darren?

"I thought that was because they just knew his personality and style."

"That's part of it, but they also pick up on his signals. I see them, too."

Bremner returned to the sitting room. Another butler, Kevin, was behind him pushing a small trolley. Bremner wore a large smile on his face and a more formal air about him. Turning to the other butler, he said, "Thank you, Kevin, I'll handle the rest." Kevin nodded and backed out, shutting the door as he left.

"Now," said Bremner, the smile still on his lips. "Your family has arranged for a small gift to welcome you to the Savoy." Curious, Ashton stood and faced the butler. Bremner pulled the trolley beside him. On it was a tray with a tall cover and a misshapen mound covered by a white cloth. The butler glanced at Alyssa. "I have checked everything and it is all here."

"Wonderful," she said. "How did you call Kevin, by the way?"

Bremner smiled and opened his jacket to reveal the small radio and earpiece connected at the lapel. "It's how I communicate with the other butlers while I'm working. I turned it back on while after I washed my hands in the bathroom."

"Sneaky," said Alyssa.

"Mr. Ashton - David, to welcome you to the Savoy and for your generosity to your family, they wanted to present you with these gifts." Bremner withdrew the cloth from the top of the trolly with a flourish. Ashton gasped. On the table sat a wooden box containing a bottle of twenty-five year old Macallan Scotch, a box of twenty Camacho Connecticut 6x60 cigars, a notch cigar cutter, a butane lighter, and a bottle of filtered butane. There were also several shot glasses in a column next to the box of Scotch.

Ashton turned to Alyssa and Johnny. "That is wonderful, kids. Thank you." The two Immortals approached him together and hugged him.

Bremner grinned behind them gave them a moment. After a few seconds, he continued, "Ah, but that is not all."

Ashton separated from Johnny and Alyssa and turned back to Bremner. "Oh?" he said?

Bremner lifted the top off the tray to reveal a bottle of chilled Petrossian vodka with five frozen glass flutes, a pound of kosher black whitefish caviar, and two boxes of crackers. "A little topper to our fine meal, courtesy of Alyssa."

Ashton smiled broadly. "That is perfect," he said, laughing. "Let's take that out to the balcony."

"Absolutely," said Bremner, back in butler mode and lifting the tray expertly without tipping any of its contents. Ashton let him pass and waited until he had set the tray on the balcony table. The others each picked up a chair and carried it outside. Ashton went to the cabinet and collected the gift bag. He went to the balcony and stood next to Bremner who was twisting open the cap to the vodka. Once he had poured the cold liquor into the flutes and distributed them to the five adults - the two children had each brought their juice glasses - Ashton began to speak.

"Since we are giving gifts, I would be remiss to say I did not have one for you, as well, Sean."

"For me?" asked Bremner, his surprise obvious.

"Alyssa has called me almost every night during her stay at the Savoy and lauded me with tales about your superb assistance to these three, your clear delight in the performance of it, and your willingness to go above and beyond in everything you do. That kind of dedication deserve some sort of recognition even if it just from a simple man like me." Bremner blushed.

"The question was what could I do? What could I present to a man like you that would not be some useless bauble that would just sit on a shelf collecting dust. Then I had a thought. And it was this." Bremner's brow furrowed with curiosity.

Ashton placed the bag on the table. "This is for you, Sean Bremner, in recognition of your marvelous performance on the job and your dedication to duty. You are truly a role model for others to emulate. Congratulations."

Ashton held out his hand to a still blushing Bremner as the rest of the table stood and applauded. Bremner shook it. He looked like he was on the verge of tears. He wiped his eyes and faced the table as they applause died down. He saw nothing but smiles before him.

"Thank you so much, friends. I hope I can call you friends." There were nods all around. "In my six years at the Savoy, I believe I can say this is the happiest day I have had. It has been an honor to serve you, to dine with you, to share drinks with you, and now to share gifts with you." He looked down at the bag. "I now wish I had one for all of you."

"Your being here is your gift, Sean," said Alyssa.

Bremner beamed. "Thank you. Without even looking in this bag, I know I can say I am not worthy of it. Anything I may have done for you couldn't possibly be worth the affection represented by this gift. For that affection, and your friendship, I am truly grateful."

The applause began again. Bremner slowly, respectfully, began to remove the tissue paper from the bag. He took each piece from inside and placed it under the bag. When the last piece was out, he put his hand inside and withdrew the contents for all to see. He, Johnny, and Alyssa gasped at what they saw. Lying on the table was a Montblanc Fine Stationery notebook. It was tobacco colored, almost black. Next to it, in a black box with white lettering, was a Meisterstück Ultra Black LeGrand fountain pen. Beside that was a bottle of black ink for refills and a black calfskin Meisterstück pen pouch with clasp.

"Something that is useful but is a statement of our thanks at the same time, I hope," said Ashton.

"Oh, David," contended Bremner. "I can't possibly take this. It must have cost you over £600."

Ashton waved away the cost argument. "Please do. It's always a delight to give gifts to people who take care of my family, particularly those who take such obvious pleasure in doing so. Consider it a token of appreciation from a friend to a friend."

Brement looked at Ashton then at the other smiling faces around the table. "Then I happily accept, David. Thank you very much."

"Now," said Ashton. "Let's see to this vodka before the flutes get any warmer, shall we. Alyssa, would you please get the cigars and accessories? They'll be a nice ending once we finish the caviar."


	18. Welcome to Your Home

Author's Note: I suppose, for legal purposes, I should say the excerpt from the novel, _E.T. the extra-terrestrial_ by William Kotzwinkle, is used without permission. I hope he won't get too distraught over a nobody such as myself quoting a few sections. Naturally, I do recommend buying the book in some manner in which he receives a royalty from it, if possible. I read it both as a child and an adult and loved it both times.

Also, the comment Raven makes about "The Boy With The Golden Soul" is not original. I got it from a piece of instrumental music I heard back in college. You can listen to it on YouTube at /l7kj4JCM6Ys. I also recommend buying the album, or at least this piece of music, so its creator also receives some recompense for his work.

17

Welcome To Your Home

"One last turn he held his breath  
'Til they reached the fifth house on the left  
And all at once the tears came rolling in  
And as they pulled into the drive  
A man was waiting there outside  
Who wiped the worry from his eyes

Smiled and took his hand"

"Oklahoma" - Billy Gilman

26 May 2004

London, England

Savoy Hotel

Ashton walked across the Savoy lobby, his chattering little entourage from the three adjoined suites in tow. He'd half expected to see Val or George at one of the restaurants during breakfast. When he had not, however, he assumed they had chosen to dine in and enjoy the luxury of their room a while longer. He couldn't blame them. They didn't get these chances often. Now, though, with the time nearing eleven, he knew exactly where to find them.

He was correct. The car was parked in front of the hotel. George, Val, and a few butlers were loading bags into the boot (trunk) of the car. Ashton smiled. He was glad to have such dependable people working for him. He looked about the lobby again, the memories from nearly sixty years ago flooding back to him. _How I'd love to just sit in this lobby and reminisce for a few hours; just thinking of Leisha._

"David."

He turned to find Sean Bremner walking briskly his way.

"Yes, Sean," he said, smiling.

"Officially, I'd like to say thank you for coming to the Savoy and I hope you enjoyed your stay. Please come again."

"Thank you. I will." Ashton noticed the new pen in its pouch in the front pocket of Bremner's jacket as he spoke.

"And unofficially, I want to say what a pleasure it was to join you for lunch yesterday. I hope we can do it again in a less formal setting sometime."

"You are welcome to contact me anytime, Sean. Take down my number." Bremner smiled and withdrew his notebook and pen. Ashton recited his phone number. "If one of my staff answers, just give them the message. They'll deliver it promptly. I am in London often and, naturally, if you are in the Hereford area, you are welcome to visit me." Ashton's voice took on a low, but humorous, conspiratorial tone, "And if you ever tire of the Savoy, I could use a good butler myself."

"I make a very good salary here at the Savoy. There are not many places that could afford me except perhaps royalty."

Ashton grinned at the man. "Do you know what I pay Colonel Harrington."

Bremner shook his head. "No. A man's salary is a private affair."

"Well, I'll use round numbers so it's not exactly what he makes, then." He leaned over and whispered in Bremner's ear. The man's jaw dropped. Ashton stepped back and grinned. "And that is for my deputy commander, in charge of six hundred men and a billion pounds worth of equipment on any given day. Would, say, two thirds of that number be a decent starting salary for you?"

Bremner could barely breathe. "That is more than generous. I can't say I'm not interested. I sense there must be some catch to it, however."

"Very perceptive. My butler is also my chief of staff. He is in charge of all the personnel at my estate, about one hundred people. There are several subordinate managers who report to him so he doesn't have to deal with each person individually."

Bremner thought for a moment. "My current contract with the Savoy goes through the end of the year. I would like to finish that out."

Ashton nodded. "That's fine. My current chief slash butler, Sebastian McNab, wants to move on to something a bit less stressful. His contract also goes through the end of the year. Perhaps we could work out a deal with your manager and you could train him as your replacement here while he shows you the ropes at my place. Maybe one day a week at each place and two toward the end?"

"That sounds reasonable," said Bremner.

"You'd have to move to Hereford, of course."

"That's not asking too much."

"Okay, we'll shake on it for now and I'll talk to Mr. Tranchan in the near future. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Bremner with a huge smile. With that handshake, his annual salary was set to double to £200,000 ($360,000 in 2004 dollars). "Thank you very much." Bremner's smile fell somewhat at he listened to his earpiece. "I'm afraid I must go. Duty calls."

"We'll talk later, Sean. Have a good day." Ashton waved and gave the man another smile. Bremner walked away.

"The car is ready, sir," said Valentin.

Ashton looked through the window to see George getting into the driver's seat; he knew today was not one of the days when Ashton would not want the social convention of his driver holding the door for him. Ashton nodded and looked into Val's eyes. Val picked up on the queue and pulled out his notebook and a pen.

" _Gata,"_ (Ready.) he said in Romanian.

Ashton, also in Romanian, said, " _Val, vă rog să vă reamintiți să discutați cu domnul Tranchan, managerul Savoyi, în viitorul apropiat, despre elaborarea unui program de formare de schimb cu șeful său șef, Sean Bremner, și șeful nostru. O parte din plan este o zi pe săptămână în fiecare locație, cu două zile la încheierea contractului fiecărui angajat. Scopul este ca fiecare angajator să aibă un înlocuitor viabil, instruit, să vină în noul an. Acest lucru este deținut pentru moment."_ (Val, please put a reminder to speak with Mr. Tranchan, the manager of the Savoy, in the near future about working out an exchange training program with his head butler, Sean Bremner, and our butler. Part of the plan is one day a week at each location with two days at the termination of each employee's contract nears. The goal is for each employer to have a viable, trained replacement come the new year. This is close hold for the moment.)

"Got it."

"Thank you, Val"

The tall Romanian grinned. "That's why I'm here."

Ashton chuckled. "Where would I be without my memory?" he said, clapping the man on the shoulder.

"Truly lost?" the man chided lightly.

"Absolutely," Ashton chuckled again. "Without a doubt." He turned to the group behind him. "Are you kids ready to go?"

"Can Ray and Paula come along, too?" asked Alyssa.

Ashton considered it briefly. "I don't see why not. Just clear it with your employers first."

"No problem," said Paula, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. "I can work from anywhere since I have my laptop as long as there's an internet connection."

Ashton nodded. Behind him, Val was scribbling another note, probably to call ahead on the car phone to arrange rooms for the girls.

"I really need to get one of those," commented Alyssa.

"Can I borrow that when you're finished?" asked Raven.

"Sure," answered Paula.

Everyone else moved toward the car while Paula and Raven waited on the outcome of the calls. "The car," as Ashton called any of his vehicles, in this case was a smaller executive limousine which could accommodate six passengers in the back. Valentin went to sit with George in the front while the younger passengers piled into the back. The seats were arranged back to front so everyone could face each other. With the small size of several of the passengers, there was plenty of room for everyone. In a moment, Paula and Raven joined them.

"Good to go I take it?" asked Ashton.

"Yep," said Raven. "I have the rest of the week."

"And I just have to keep up with my usual work which won't be too difficult," commented Paula. "A few hours a day. If I can have a quiet place to work and a good internet connection, that is."

"We'll take care of that," said Ashton. Up front, he saw Val nod.

"How is the cell signal out there?" Paula asked.

"Not bad," Ashton answered. "You should be fine. That reminds me, I need to get one myself sometime. I gave one to Johnny a few years ago, but it met an unfortunate end."

"What happened?" Raven inquired.

"Someone shot at me and hit the phone," Johnny replied.

Raven went ashen. Ashton's expression turned sour. Alyssa smiled.

"It's okay, David. She knows about us."

Ashton relaxed. "Very well, then. Well, so do George and Val, so we can talk freely here."

"Even knowing you're Immortal," said Raven, "having someone shoot at you is still a scary thought."

"Yes," agreed Ashton. "Yes, it is. Very much so."

It was very subtle, but both Johnny and Alyssa could sense the full body shiver that went through Ashton's body at that moment as countless memories of just such moments went through his mind. _He's still human, after all,_ thought Alyssa.

"Speaking of scary," Ashton began with a smirk, crossing a leg over his knee casually, "I hear there is one young man in this car who has been hearing horror stories about my training techniques and is somewhat concerned about them." He turned his gaze to Tristan, his eyes bright with humor.

Tristan, on the other hand, sitting across from Ashton, instinctively moved closer to Alyssa for protection, lowering his head until it was under her arm. Ashton noticed this and his smile broadened.

"I promise I don't bite."

Tristan's eyes darted around the limo as he tried to think of a response. Finally, he took a breath and focused his attention on Ashton.

"Johnny and Alyssa told me about how you trained them and it sounded like it was very rough. Very mean. Abusive. Like stabbing them and breaking bones. Hurting them every day. I don't want that."

Ashton smiled again. He looked at Johnny who sat next to him and mussed his hair. "Well, this little miscreant, left out perhaps the first year or two of his training, then. I didn't start out doing such things to him. I was much gentler at first. The same with Alyssa."

Ashton uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You see, Tristan, each training plan is tailored to the student. I start slow and easy and gradually build from there. Come here."

Ashton motioned for him to approach with one hand. He also put his other arm behind Johnny's back and gently pushed him forward. Johnny got the hint and knelt down on the floor of the limo. Tristan nervously did the same.

"I'm going to touch you. Is that okay?"

Tristan nodded.

"Okay. Here is an example of what I mean by tailoring my plan." Ashton reached out and gently plied his fingers along Tristan's upper arm and forearm. He then did the same to Johnny's arm. "Feel your arm like I did. Don't squeeze hard, just lightly." Tristan did so. "Now the same for Johnny." Tristan reached out and felt Johnny's arm.

Ashton then flattened his hand and lightly patted Tristan's chest and abdomen twice. Again, he did the same to Johnny. He instructed Tristan to do the same. He then had them take their seats again.

"Now," Ashton said. "What did you notice? "What was the difference between you and Johnny?"

"I was soft everywhere, except for my lower arm and chest which were bony. Johnny wasn't. He was like touching a rock."

Ashton turned his head to the other boy. "Were you flexing your muscles at all?" Johnny shook his head.

Ashton grinned again. "What Johnny left out of his little story was, at the beginning of his training, he was just like you. I mean almost exactly like you. A small, scared, starving, bony little boy with no fighting skills and no direction."

Beside Ashton, Johnny's face darkened at the memory. He looked at Tristan and slowly nodded.

"By the time the sorts of things he mentioned, the rough stuff, started to happen, years had passed, he had learned a wide range of skills and was progressing to more advanced techniques. He was much more like the boy you see here. He was ready for such things. We didn't start off with it on day one. Does that help at all?"

"Yes, it does." The relief on Tristan's face was plain. Alyssa's arm around him clearly helped, as well. "I thought you were going to punch me in the face tomorrow or stab me in the stomach."

"Oh, no," said Ashton, laughing. "Tomorrow, maybe not even that early, we're going to just worry about getting that little body of yours into better shape. We've got a long way to go before we ever start worry about putting weapons in your hands. First, we have to condition you to handle the training."

"What does that mean?" Tristan asked.

Johnny smirked. "For starters, a lot of running."

Ashton chuckled and nudged the boy. "That's the simple way of putting it, yes. Running." He glanced at Tristan's shoes. "We'll have to see about a better pair of those first, though. Don't worry. Like I said. We'll start slow and build. Johnny will help you, too."

"I will?" Johnny asked, looking up at Ashton.

"Of course," the Minoan replied, putting an arm around the boy. "You helped get him into this. The least you can do now is assist him in his training."

Johnny shrugged, leaning into Ashton's shoulder. "Sure. That won't be too bad." Then he sat up. "Ah, man. That means I have to get up early in the morning like you do."

Ashton chuckled again. "Yes, it does."

Johnny leaned into his shoulder again and grumbled. "Damn it all."

Alyssa giggled and gave him a light kick from across the limo. "Like you're not going to go right back and take a nap as soon as you're finished."

"There's no way. Marc and Tally will latch onto me once I get back and I'll get no rest at all."

"I've seen you with them before," Alyssa countered. "You're smiling the whole time you're playing with them."

Johnny couldn't suppress the grin from appearing on his lips, especially once Ashton's arm squeezed him. "Yeah," he admitted. "They are fun. They're almost like little puppies crawling all over you. All you need is the little yipping barks."

With another giggle, Alyssa added, "I've heard their little high-pitched voices. They almost sound like that anyways."

"You've been away for a little while," said Ashton. "Tally is eight now. Her voice is a little different."

"I bet she's still adorable, though."

"She always has been."

"And Marc?"

"He still loves everyone, the happiest boy you'll ever meet."

Alyssa squeezed Tristan. "Then he's going to be all over this little guy. Just like a little brother."

Tristan grinned slightly at Alyssa's comment. He glanced at Johnny and said, "Penance used to always say my happiness was contagious."

This got a full-blown laugh from Johnny. "Oh, it's a shame he never met Marc, then. Get the two of you in the same room and he'd never be sad again."

"Is he really that nice a kid?"

Johnny nodded at Tristan's question. "Marc is the embodiment of true happiness." He looked up at Ashton. "The only time he gets remotely sad is whenever David has to deploy somewhere. Even then, he seems content; he's just not as exuberant as before. You realize he's trying to keep other people smiling, from feeling the pain of their parents being away. You have to know his personality to see that he is actually sad, too. Fortunately, David's deployments are never very long."

"He's a true angel," said Alyssa. "What seven-year old is that selfless?"

"What's Tally like?" inquired Tristan.

"She's a doll, a little blue-eyed beauty," answered Alyssa. Ashton smiled at that.

"She's the leader of the two," said Johnny. "She's also the more emotional one. She's sharp as a tack and very funny, a great sense of humor. Just like her brother, she's a cuddler, but what eight-year old isn't?" He looked at Ashton again. "Daddy's little lap girl." This got him another squeeze.

"Jealous?" Ashton asked.

"Only sometimes," Johnny said, with a grin. "But she goes to bed early enough that I still get my chances."

Tristan looked at Johnny in surprise. "You still sit in laps?"

"And what's wrong with that?" asked Johnny, his face full of humor. "A boy can't sit in a lap now and then?"

"I'm not saying it's wrong. I do it all the time. I just didn't think teenagers still did it. That's all."

Johnny laughed. "I know several teens who still do. They don't do it as often as younger kids, of course. They just have to feel comfortable with the adult and the situation. If everything is right then they'll do it. Besides, in this day and age, I can pass for your age if I want. So could Alyssa if she tried. Well, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Regardless, all four of us could sit in David's lap and not look out of place." Johnny looked up at the Minoan once more. "It might get a little cramped there, though, and cut off the circulation to his legs.

"Don't even think about it, little one," said Ashton, squeezing him again.

Johnny smiled and glanced across the seats. "Even Ray is small enough. She's almost as tiny as Tristan. She could fit, too. I bet she looks better in a skirt than he does, though."

"Now you're just being silly," Raven huffed.

Johnny stuck out his tongue and laughed again. "Got to pass the time somehow. It's a long drive."

"How long is it," asked Paula.

"A little more than three hours," Ashton said. "I hope you brought a book or can sleep in a car."

xxxxxxxxxx

26 May 2004

Hereford, England

The 22nd Special Air Service Regiment relocated from Hereford to Royal Air Force Base Credenhill in 1999 not far from Hereford. For all intents, it was still the same city. The base was renamed Stirling Lines after the regiment's founder, Colonel David Stirling. When Ashton started NextGen Corporation in 2000, his home estate was built within the grounds of Stirling Lines.

Tristan awoke as they approached the main gate of Stirling Lines. Ashton passed his ID card through the back window to George as they slowed. The driver hit a button to lower the windows. George conferred with one of the gate guards while several others peered through the open windows. Another checked the undercarriage for explosives with a mirror mounted on a pole on wheels. When they were satisfied, the sergeant of the guard returned the ID card, saluted, and waved the car through the gate.

"You live on a military base?" asked Tritan as the windows slowly rose.

"Yes," answered Ashton as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Part of my agreement with the British government."

"Wow," Tristan said as he watched the scenery. "How much farther?"

"Not far," Johnny answered. "Ten kilometers or so, but it will seem farther since we have to drive slower. Pretty much everything we do is on the base, though, so it's good." Jonnny nudged Ashton's leg. "We'll need to get him an ID card, won't we?"

"Yes, after we produce all the other documents to make it legitimate."

Tristan smiled. "Like adoption papers and stuff like that?"

"Exactly," said Ashton.

"Would stuff from the States work?"

"For a while. Not indefinitely. I'd probably have to adopt you at some point."

"I created stuff for Travis and Donna Needham before we came over here from Florida. It's all in my bag."

"Did you now?" Ashton gave him a peculiar look and then grinned. "That explains why Travis was giving me those odd glances during our meeting a week ago. He knows."

Tristan's eyes fell. "Yes. I told him. My Watcher, Jack, confirmed it."

"And Donna, too, I suppose." It was not a question.

"Yes."

"She was always better at hiding her feelings." Ashton sighed. "I'll have to do a better job at behaving around them, as well, I guess."

"Jack made them become Watchers," said Tristan, giggling.

Ashton grinned. "He did? Well, how's that for retribution. That means they'll be asking for time off for a made up reason in order to attend the Academy." He patted his knee with one hand. "Can't be helped. I'll deal with it. Thank you for the information."

"They're not going to lose their jobs, are they?" Tristan asked, concerned.

"Oh, no, don't worry about that. I have numerous Watchers across several of my organizations. Many in NextGen, actually. In some cases, I encourage it. I just like to know about it. There are times when I prefer them not to be included in certain projects of mine. That's all."

As they chatted, Val picked up the handset to the carphone and held it to his ear. He said one word into it, "Specter," and waited for a response. Upon hearing it, he replied, "Nitro," and hung up. "Good to go," he said through the window. "Two minutes out."

"Thank you, Val," Ashton responded. "Please call the house and let them know we're here."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, boys and girls," said Ashton. "We're almost home."

"Is that your house?" leaning forward and looking over Ashton's shoulder to peer through the window to the driver's compartment. Raven turned to get a view, as well. In front of them sprawled a massive walled estate. The road on which they were traveling led to a large metal gate. A building was built into the side of the wall, its purpose obvious; a guard shack. Val's call had had its effects, though. The gate began to swing open as they drew closer.

They drove down a long driveway, passing several roving guards as they went. The path took them through several copses of trees and curves around in front of the house. Tristan would not have been surprised if a massive fountain shooting water a meter into the air had also been there. The house itself was three stories tall of brick and granite construction. A young Japanese woman stood at the top of the stairs of the wraparound porch awaiting their arrival, her hands clasped in front of her. A small closed-mouth grin graced her face.

Ashton looked across the short expanse of the limo into Tristan's eyes. His expression was serious but gentle.

"Tristan, this place is your home now. I want you to treat it as such. Okay?"

Tristan slowly nodded.

"I know it will take some time to get comfortable with the thought but I would like for you to think of everyone here as your family." Ashton grinned. "A rather large one, at that."

Tristan nodded again. "It's been a long time since I had a family except for a few weeks ago when I got to see my parents again." He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Thank you. I'll try."

"That's all I ask. Now, let's go meet them."

Johnny pushed his door open while Paula did the same on her side. The passengers clambered out of the car. Johnny, Alyssa, and Ashton immediately made their way toward the front stairs. Tristan walked to the back of the car where Val and George were already unloading luggage from the boot. George smiled at him.

"Don't worry about this," he said. "We'll take care of it and bring it up to your room."

"I have a room?" Tristan asked.

"Of course, you do," answered Val, also smiling. "Mr. Ashton wouldn't bring you here and make you sleep on the floor." He lifted two more bags and added, "Go on and meet the others. We'll have this minor business handled soon."

"Wow," Tristan remarked. "I didn't expect people to do stuff for me after I left the hotel. I thought that all ended once I came here."

George chuckled. "Mr. Ashton has a staff of people on this estate. It's almost like being at the Savoy. He does expect you to do some things yourself, though. You'll figure it out over time." With another smile, he said, "Go on and meet the others."

"Okay. Thank you," Tristan said, trotting after the rest of the group.

He caught up to the rest of his travelling companions seconds later. He also saw that more people had gathered on the porch. Johnny was chatting animatedly with two smaller children. Paula was talking to a tall, blond man. Raven was waving her hands and talking to a muscular man with dark hair and a young boy of about eight. As Tristan walked up the stairs, he froze. There were other Immortals nearby. He looked around, trying to locate them.

Ashton, standing on the porch with his arm around the Japanese woman's shoulders, noticed his concern. He motioned with his free hand.

"Don't worry, Tristan. It's two friends of mine. Darren Dublin and Vivia Wales. They're in the front living room up front. They'll be out in a moment."

"We're right here, David," said a slender, dark-haired woman as she stepped through the doorway. A slightly taller, also dark-haired, man followed her.

Ashton's grin grew wider. He put his other arm around her. "Now my two favorite women are both here." He looked back at the man. "I'm not putting an arm around you, Darren."

The man grinned. "Is that because you've run out of them or because you're not drunk enough?"

With a smirk, Ashton replied, "Pick one."

As if the last quip had not happened, both women turned their heads, mirror images of each other, to look into his face. Their similar dark complexions and dark hair, as well as similar height, added to the resemblance.

"Ah, but I don't have a ring through your nose like Asami does," said Vivia.

Ashton turned his gaze to the Japanese woman. He put on faux-accusatory expression. "Asami, did you put a ring through my nose while I was sleeping again?" He pulled her closer as he asked the question.

"Only a small one. I didn't think you would notice."

"Obviously, he didn't if he had to ask," remarked Vivia, flashing a grin at Asami. "That's why you have him under your complete control.

Asami giggled. "Some men need to be controlled sometimes."

"Some pay good money for it, too," Vivia responded. Tristan now noticed the silver cuff on her left ear.

"Not the right place or time, ladies," Ashton replied.

"Did you hear that, Asami? He confused us for ladies?"

Asami giggled again and wiggled out of Ashton's grasp. "Sometimes, yes; sometimes, no. Right now, I want to meet this cute little man in front of me." She smiled and bent down. Being so short herself, she did not have to bend far. She extended a small hand.

"Hello, I'm Asami Ukita. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Tristan took her hand, applying only gentle pressure to the shake for fear of hurting what appeared to be such a delicate creature. To his surprise, her palms and fingers were hard and callused.

 _Oh, yeah, they did say she was heavy into martial arts, too. I guess that would be natural. The rest of her certainly doesn't look that way. She's beautiful._

"Hello, I'm Tristan Dahl. It's nice to meet you, too." He followed up with a small bow.

Asami smiled at him. "Cute and courteous. I like you." She motioned him forward in the Japanese manner, palm downward with fingers sweeping toward her. To a westerner, this gesture can sometimes be confused for rude dismissal. Tristan looked at her with confusion. Vivia laughed from above them.

"In the Japanese culture," she said, "that's the same as this." She held her palm up and swept her fingers toward her. "She's saying, "Come here.""

"Oh," said Tristan. "I'm sorry," he said to Asami. "I didn't know."

Asami laughed demurely. "It's no problem. You'll get used to me."

Tristan stepped forward. Asami cupped his face in her hands and looked into his brown eyes. She smiled again. "Yes, I think I'm going to like you, Tristan." She looked back at Johnny and his two companions. "Now there will be four children in the house. What do you call it? A circus?" Another smile.

"I'll try not to go too crazy. I promise." He smiled back at her.

Asami giggled. "It's part of being a boy. Don't worry. Come on. Meet the others." She took his arm and pulled him gently. She brought him over to where Johnny was still chattering. They quieted down as he approached. Asami had him stop in from of a smiling blonde girl with enchanting blue eyes.

"This," said Asami, "is Grace Natalya Ashton. We call her Tally."

"I hear you're our new big brother," chirped the girl enthusiastically, her eyes dancing.

"Uhm, I guess I am," said Tristan. "It's nice to meet you, Tally." He held out his hand.

"Pfft," said Tally. "That's not how you greet a big brother," she said and jumped at him. Tristan found himself with a laughing little girl wrapped around him trying to squeeze him to death. He could do nothing but laugh along with her and squeeze back. She released him and stepped back. "That's better," she said, slightly breathless, but grinning.

"And next," Asami prodded, moving him on to the next child. Tristan now stood in front of a younger boy with brown hair and equally blue eyes. His smile was no less energetic than his sister's. "This is…" began Asami.

She got no further. The boy pounced on Tristan, embracing him before she could say another word, and drawing a stunned "Oomph," from Tristan. Everyone around began to chuckle.

"This is Marcus Aaron Ashton," continued Asami, still chuckling. "He's got a hug for everyone. Just call him Marc."

Marc stepped away from Tristan and looked up at him with an enormous grin. "Hi, big brother. Are you going to stay with us forever?"

"At least for a little while," answered Tristan, putting a hand on the child's shoulder.

"Good," said Marc, as he started to hop up and down. "Then you can start by having a snack with us."

"Yeah, come on. We've got all kinds of stuff waiting for everyone," said Tally, taking his hand. Marc seized his other hand and began to tug.

Tristan looked at Johnny who only grinned at him and silently followed. The two children pulled him toward the door, both of them talking the entire time about the fun they would have while he was there. Ashton and the other new arrivals watched as Tristan was dragged helplessly into the house, all of them enjoying the show.

"Well," said Ashton, "I suppose we can continue introductions inside."

xxxxxxxxxx

26 May 2004

Winchester, England

Aadam Farid smiled into his cell phone's microphone despite the fact no one could see the expression. "Our far eastern representative says we will have four hundred people from his region, perhaps more, attending our event next year. We are quite excited to hear this. We have many preparations to make for their arrival."

"That is good news. We'll be ready," said the voice on the other end.

"I knew I could trust you, my friend," Farid replied. "You have my thanks. A few advance members will arrive to assist you in a week or so."

"Good. I could use the help. Any word from the near east?"

"Nothing yet. I expect our representative there to get at least one hundred fifty to two hundred interested attendees from that region, as well. That was his estimate before he left, anyway. It's going to be quite a high-profile event, after all. All the major players will want to be here."

There was a chuckle on the other side of the line. "Of that, I'm sure. We're doing well on our side. No complications so far. I'll be back in a few days."

"Thank you, my friend. I will see you soon."

Farid closed his phone and paced the bedroom of his two-story house. The conversation had been secure enough. No names had been used and anyone listening in would thing it was two men discussing a large business meeting or a party. Farid grinned.

 _If they only knew. Allah has truly smiled on this mission._

He glanced across the street. There were several vacant houses on this block. Perhaps he should rent them, as well, and use them to house some of the men who would be coming over the next year. He shrugged and decided he would discuss it with Steyn later. Logistics was the South African's strong point, not his.

xxxxxxxxxx

26 May 2004

Croydon, England

Charles Steyn glared at his now silent phone before putting it back in his pocket. He huffed to himself.

"What's the problem now?" asked Carlton Pollack, looking up from his seat by a long table against the warehouse wall.

"Aadam is bringing some sand fleas over to "help" with preparations in a week or so." Steyn shoved his hand in his pockets. "Those lazy bastards are never any help. They're worse than _kaffirs_ when it comes to working. Five prayer breaks a day, not washing their hands after taking a shit, rarely showering so they smell like royal ass. They're awful people. You've got to watch them like a hawk to get anything useful out of them."

"Aadam's not like that."

Steyn harumphed again. "He's the rare exception to the rule. Maybe immortality civilized him a bit. He still does that praying shit five times a day, though. What a waste of time." Steyn shifted his gaze to the various components on Pollack's workbench. "Speaking of time, how are you coming along?"

Pollack spun in his chair. "Ah, I am coming along fine. I will have no problem completing the units for the one hundred volunteers who will carry out the bus bombing. The second event will be the challenge. That is going to take me quite a bit of time. Fortunately, though, we have quite a bit of that, at the moment."

Pollack swivelled around again to face Steyn. "As I get closer to completion on preparation for the second and third events, space is going to become an issue, though. Where are we going to store all of the other equipment we need? Closer to the sites, of course."

"Leave that to me. We have this warehouse for the moment. It will be clear by then. How many more do think we need?"

Pollack thought more a moment, doing the math in his head. "Five more of this size, at least."

Steyn nodded. "Between now and then, I'll make that happen. I'll get the space we need. You just make the bombs."

Pollack grinned. "That, Charles, is what I live to do."

"And you are very good at it, Carl," Steyn added with a laugh.

xxxxxxxxxx

26 May 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

The introductions did continue as they entered the house. The boy who had been standing with the muscular man approached Tally and Marc as they showed Tristan the array of snack foods on the kitchen table. He stood barely three centimeters taller than Tally. His hair was the same color as Tristan's though it was somewhat shorter. His eyes were a very dark blue that, at the right angle and light, could almost appear black.

Tally smiled and took the boy's arm as he drew near. The boy laughed at the unnecessary prodding. "Tristan, here's someone you need to meet. This is Vasily. His first name is actually Andrei, but he goes by his middle name most of the time. I usually call him "Silly.""

Vasily laughed again and gave Tally a gentle push on the shoulder. "You're the silly one, Tally," he retorted lightly.

Tally responded by slipping an arm around his waist. Looking over at Tristan, she said, "See, so silly?"

Vasily grinned in the manner that said he wasn't sure if he should let her continue to do this because she was a friend or stop because she was a girl and was therefore icky. He put an arm on her shoulder anyway. Tristan just laughed at it all and helped himself to a finger sandwich from the table.

"Hi, Daddy," said Vasily, turning to face the dark-haired man walking toward them. Though actually only slightly taller than Ashton, the man's musculature made him appear taller than he was. His eyes were exactly like his son's; his hair somewhat darker. His gaze moved from one child to the next, finally settling on Tristan.

"Hello," he said, his accent slight but discernible in that one word. "I am Stanislav. You may call me Stas. I will be your martial arts instructor, well, eventually." He held out his hand.

"Hello, sir," Tristan greeted, taking the man's hand. "Eventually?"

Stas grinned. "Mr. Ashton probably will not have you start working with me right away. He will get you in better shape first, if I know him well enough."

"And he does," added Vasily with a laugh.

Stas allowed a chuckle of his own. "Yes. Two or three weeks, probably, and then we will start. It will be good for you, I think."

Tristan looked over at Johnny and then back at Stas. "Is this what is called _systema_?"

Stas's surprise was obvious. "You've heard of it? Yes. Very good."

Tristan smiled. "I saw a short demonstration of it in London. It looked like it's incredibly…effective, even if you're a small person."

Stas's eyes darted briefly to Johnny. "Yes, it would be. It is designed foro maximum effect when used properly, but enough talk of that now. It is time to eat and have fun now."

"No complaints from me, Stas," Tristan replied. Stas laughed and turned away. Tristan happily turned his attention back to the table.

The minutes of conversation turned into hours. Tristan originally divided his attention between the two Ashton children, Johnny and Alyssa. After a while, though, Tally gravitated toward Vivia and Marc to Ashton leaving Tristan with only two people to entertain him. He tried to maneuver through the small crowd and interact with the others in the room but, not really knowing anyone else except, somewhat, Paula and Raven, he found himself quite limited and eventually wandered away.

Ashton called everyone to dinner that evening and they sat around a large table to enjoy the meal his head cook, Terry, had prepared for them. Thankfully, Johnny and Alyssa sat next to Tristan so he had some nice conversation to go with the superb meal. It was when the meal concluded that he found himself at a loss.

Despite Ashton's directive to make himself at home, a part of the family, in fact, such a thing was still difficult when he was still the new boy. Tristan looked around the expansive living room. Everyone had now divided into little groups and were now entertaining themselves quite well without him, thank you very much. Ashton and Asami sat together on one of the couches talking quietly with Marc laying across their laps, his head on the arm of the couch beaming up at them. Asami was gently stroking his hair. Johnny and Alyssa were lying on their stomachs on the floor, their feet in the air, looking at a magazine and giggling about something. Darren Dublin and Stas reclined nearby in two overstuffed chairs puffing on Ashton's cigars; Vasily dozed in Stas's lap. Raven and Paula were on the other couch talking about reality TV while Vivia sat at the other end of the couch with Tally in her lap. Tally was reading a book of some kind while Vivia worked a crossword puzzle. Tristan sat on the stairs leading to the second floor and watched it all.

Movement across the room caught Tristan's attention. Marc had swung his legs out of Ashton's lap and was standing up. He didn't say anything, just began to walk toward Tristan, looking directly at him as he neared. Tristan glanced at his watch. It was almost seven thirty.

 _It must be his bedtime._

Tristan stood up and moved out of the way so the boy could go up the stairs. Marc didn't go upstairs when he got there, however. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Tristan's waist and squeezed him tightly, the side of his head pressed against his abdomen. When the boy lightened the pressure around him, Marc looked up at him with a wide grin, his eyes bright and inviting. Tristan looked down at him curiously.

Gently taking Tristan's hand, Marc whispered, "Come on," and led him toward the living room. He brought Tristan to one of vacant overstuffed chairs and gestured for him to sit. Tristan sat on the edge of the seat. Still curious, he watched as the small boy walked over to a bookshelf and perused it intently.

"Ah," Marc said with a small hint of triumph in his voice and pulled a book from a shelf just above his head. He walked back to Tristan. Seeing how he sat, Marc made a pushing motion with his hands, though one held the book. "Scoot back," he said.

Tristan did as he was told. Immediately, Marc climbed the chair and made himself comfortable in Tristan's lap.

"Hey!" Tristan protested, though he couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice.

"Hush," commanded Marc softly, wiggling himself into a better position and opening the book to a predetermined spot held by a bookmark. Pointing to a spot in the book with a tiny finger, the boy leaned back into Tristan's chest and said, "Read."

Tristan held his finger in the place where the boy had indicated and flipped to book over to look at its front cover. _E.T. the extra-terrestrial._ His jaw went slack.

"I love this book," he whispered to Marc.

"Good," the boy replied, wiggling a little more.

Tristan began to read. The ancient alien scientist had accidentally been abandoned on Earth by his colleagues. He was lost and starving in the woods.

He raised a hand limply. Exhaustion had set in on him, and hunger. The powerful ration tablets he and his crewmates survived on - compressed little miracles of nutrition - were not on Earth. He had tried to chew a few bunch-berries, found them most unsatisfying, and spat out the hard little seeds. During ten million years of gathering wild plant life, he'd never found it necessary to learn which ones were nutritious, and it was late in the game to start now.

Oh, for one tiny ration tablet, loaded with energy.

He slouched back in the brush, weak, depressed, and itching all over from a species of trumpet-creeper he'd sampled. The end was near.

Tristan looked up. He had the attention of some of the others in the room now. Tally had stopped reading her book and was looking his way; so was Vivia. Johnny and Vivia were paying attention, as well. Stas had even awakened Vasily from his nap so he could enjoy the story, too.

Tristan returned to the book. The Earth boy, Elliot, had some indication that something was in the woods and wanted to find it. Of course, his friends didn't believe him because he was just some twerp. He set out to find the thing on his own.

The old space being in the nearby bushes did not reveal his presence, for the boy's unpleasant dog may be sniffing about too, with hopes of biting a distinguished scientist on the ankle.

But no - the youth seemed to be alone. Still, it was best to remain unnoticed. An extraterrestrial was about to expire in the underbrush and there was no point in involving strangers.

The boy, however, proceeded with a peculiar series of acts. He brought a bag from his pocket, from which he took a tiny object. He placed the object on the ground, walked a few paces, placed another, and another, and another, until he was out of sight, far along a hidden path.

The ancient traveler crawled feebly from the bushes. Curiosity was his worst character trait, but he was too old to change now. On hands and knees, he entered the clearing to see what the youth had deposited there.

It was a small round pill, bearing a remarkable resemblance to a space-nutrition tablet. He turned it over in his palm. Upon it was printed an indecipherable code:

M & M

He put it in his mouth and let it dissolve.

Delicious.

In fact, exquisite. Indeed, he'd never tasted anything like it anywhere in the galaxy.

He hurried along the trail, eating one pill after another, strength returning, hope surging in his heart. The trail led him to the boy's house once more.

The other adults in the room observed the children as Tristan continued to read. All the children were now sitting or lying on the floor around Tristan's chair completely entranced by his storytelling. Even Paula and Raven had moved from the couch to sitting on the floor in front of it.

Raven leaned down to whisper into Alyssa's ear. "You said Marc was a little angel. Oh, my God. You didn't tell me the boy had a golden soul, as well. Look at how he just made Tristan a part of the family."

Alyssa smiled at Ray's comment. "The boy with the golden soul. I like that. I'm using that from now on."


	19. No Ordinary Pain

"Don't fool yourself  
But tell no one else  
That it's more than just  
An ordinary pain"

"Ordinary Pain" - Stevie Wonder

31 May 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

Johnny's voice was not loud, but it was commanding. Tristan's eyes opened slowly. Getting up at four o'clock in the morning was not the worst part of his day. As the other Immortal had promised him at the Savoy, his body hurt everywhere. _And this is the easy part?_

They had started the day after arriving at Stirling Lines, just he and Johnny, with stretching exercises and calisthenics. After being exhausted by that came the running. Oh, God, the running. Other than the standard jog, Tristan had not known there were so many ways to move his feet. They had started with a "short" one kilometer run. Johnny had been, for the most part, nice to him by allowing him to keep a pace that was faster than a walk but not quite a jog. Tristan noticed Johnny was not even the slightest bit winded by that excursion.

After the run, they walked for a while. For Johnny, it was a walk anyway. For Tristan, it was almost a speedwalk. He quickly realized the intent was to allow him to rest somewhat but still keep his heart rate elevated. They soon reached a school used by students of the families of the soldiers stationed at Stirling Lines. Tristan's spirits sank. There was a running track located there.

On this track, Tristan learned the many different types of sprints that existed. First, Johnny had him start jogging a lap around the track. When he came to a white line crossing his path, however, he had to sprint at his top speed until he came to another line across his path. This continued until he finished the lap. He could then walk another lap. After two running laps, Johnny decided to change it up.

He called this kind of sprint suicides and the term seemed appropriate. Johnny chose a straight one hundred meter length of track and had Tristan stand at the start of the length. Johnny stood twenty meters away. Tristan was to sprint over to Johnny, tag his hand, and then sprint back to the starting line. Johnny would then move twenty meters farther away. He would continue moving farther down the track until he reached the one hundred meter line. Tristan thought he sounded like a dying locomotive at the end of this. He certainly felt like it. He earned another two walking laps for his efforts.

"What's next?" Tristan asked as they completed walking the second lap of the track.

Johnny pointed across the field. "See that hill? The one with the paved road going up it?"

Tristan turned his head. His spirits fell again. What he saw was a one hundred meter long stretch of hillside with a terrifyingly severe incline.

"The soldiers here call it "Cardiac Hill,"" said Johnny, a malicious smirk on his lips.

"I can see why," Tristan replied. "My heart stopped just looking at it."

Johnny laughed and clapped Tristan's shoulder. "We've got two types of sprints to do on that hill and one more on this track. Then we're done. Just think of that. Make it through the hill and you're nearly there. Then we can walk home."

Tristan tried to grin at the thought but the prospect of so many more sprints in front of him was just too harrowing. They jogged slowly over to the hill. Tristan was grateful, at least, for that.

"I'll do these with you," said Johnny. "Let's do a few more stretches to get ready. Some ankle rotations would be good, too."

After the numerous exercises, running, and sprints, Tristan had to admit the stretching felt really good, even if he knew he had to sprint more after it. He even let out a sigh of relief as he stretched his calves and hamstrings.

"Are you ready for this?" asked Johnny.

"Would it help if I said, "No?""

With a grin, Johnny replied, "No."

"Then, I guess I'm ready."

"Okay, we'll start here, sprint to the top, jog in place for the count of twenty, sprint back down, jog in place for another twenty, and then repeat. We'll do that three times. Okay?"

Tristan let out a puff of air. "Okay."

"Then, go."

Tristan didn't even worry about trying to keep up with Johnny. He knew that was a pointless endeavor. He did see, however, that the other boy was jogging in place and waiting for him at the top of the hill. So it was going to be Johnny's count of twenty, not Tristan's.

 _Can't win 'em all._

Tristan reached the top, his heart, lungs, and calves on fire, and began to jog in place. Johnny began to count aloud, about a second between each number.

Twenty came far too soon. Down the hill they went. Tristan hadn't considered the fact, but downhill was much easier than up. He let gravity do some of the work for him as he ran. The look on Johnny's face, however, as he jogged in place below, told him this was incorrect. When Tristan reached the bottom himself, he received his only reproachful comment from his friend that day.

"Don't let me see you sandbagging it again, Tristan. Always do your best. Otherwise there's no point in doing this at all. You'll have to be at your best when the other guy is trying to kill you; be your best now."

Were he not trying so hard just to breathe, Tristan would have gulped in fear. Yes, he had encountered other Immortals and had even killed one but he had never had anyone, not even Penance, put the facts to him so boldly before. He nodded at Johnny and fought to speak.

"I promise."

"Good. It's time to go back up."

This time, on the way back down, Tristan gave it a full sprint the entire time. Johnny nodded with approval as the boy dashed by him.

"That's much better," he whooped. "That's what I want to see every time. Awesome! Come on back. One more and we're done with this hill."

After the last set on the hill, rather than jogging in place for twenty seconds, they jogged back to the track. Here, Tristan learned the final task he had to complete for the morning's routine; a four hundred meter nonstop sprint.

"That's one full lap of this track," said Johnny. "Do you want me to go with you?"

Tristan shook his head. "No, let me do this. Just wait for me."

Johnny nodded. "Okay. Start whenever you're ready."

Tristan took several deep breaths while he surveyed the track. It seemed to grow larger with each glance. Johnny seemed to read his mind.

"Don't look at the track. It will just intimidate you. You just did a hundred meters a while ago on the hill. Break it up in your mind. Four one hundred meter sprints. There are lines on the track to break it up. Just think to yourself, "I've got to do four." When you get to the first line, think, "Three more." Like that. Make it a countdown. It makes it easier."

Tristan nodded. "Okay." He closed his eyes and took another breath. He slowly let it out.

"That's better," said Johnny.

Tristan ran. He thought only of Johnny's words from earlier. "Be your best." He gave it his best now. He could hear Johnny lively cheers behind him as his feet pounded the rubberized track. His breath came in deep gasps through his mouth. He was already nearing the first hundred meter marker. Passed it.

Three more. His arms pumped faster as he tried to pull more energy from his tiny body. His lungs were already starting to burn. The second marker was just ahead.

 _I have to keep going._

The second marker passed. Two more. Tristan's tongue was getting dry. It was getting difficult to breathe now. He was on the far end of the track. It was difficult to hear Johnny's cheers though he knew they were still there. He didn't know how far he still had to go. The spots in front of his eyes were making it difficult to see.

 _I can't stop. I'm almost done, right?_

Tristan passed the one hundred meter marker. He could make out Johnny's cheers a little more discernibly as he rounded the curve. He focused on the sound, still trying to press out anything he had left. Whatever it was, there wasn't much more.

"Come on, Tristan. Fifty meters more. You've got this."

Tristan's gait started to wobble. He was getting dizzy. He could barely see anything at all. He kept running anyway.

"Don't fall now. Twenty meters. Come on."

Tristan crossed the starting line. Only the sound of Johnny whooping cheer told him it was okay for him to stop. He staggered into an ungainly walk, bending down slowly with each step. His breathing came in deep, hoarse, painful gasps. Johnny was at his side in seconds, an arm around his shoulders.

"Don't bend down. I know it's what you want to do. It makes it harder to breathe. Stand up and put your hands behind your head. Walk slowly. Let's go around for another lap, nice and slow. You did very well."

That had been day one. Johnny had put him on a serious regimen of stretching and water consumption after that morning. The workouts had gotten progressively more difficult with each day with Johnny adding another exercise or another set of sprints or more distance. Saturday, _Shabbat_ , was the only rest day and he had slept for a good part of that. Now, it was time to do it all again. Tristan struggled to get his aching body out of bed.

"When does this start getting easier?" he asked Johnny.

His answer was a laugh. "The first week was a short one. This is the first real week. It will be awhile before the stuff we originally did seems easy."

Tristan looked at Johnny in horror. "Wait a minute. That means it never really gets easier. It just means the stuff in the past seems easy by comparison."

Johnny grinned. "Kind of. I mean, you'll get to the point on a lot of things, like running, for example, or press-ups, where you might decide you're happy with where you are and just decide to maintain that level. Then you just work to keep yourself there. There are other training areas," Johnny's expression grew serious, "like fighting, where you always push yourself. If you have an easy day there, you either did it wrong or it's time to learn something new to add to your skills."

Tristan thought about this as he put on his shoes. "That kind of sounds like my teachers from elementary school. "Never stop learning," they always said."

Johnny laughed again. "That's a good way to put it. Ready?"

"Yep."

"Okay. Let's go."

xxxxxxxxxx

03 February 1973

Charleston, South Carolina

Tristan leaned against the brick wall, shivering in his thin clothes. Grinning, Penance shuffled closer to him.

"Still used to those warm Florida temperatures, eh?"

Tristan nodded, running his hands along his arms.

"Ya know it's only fourteen degrees (53℉), right? It's not really that cold."

"It is to me," retorted Tristan, his teeth chattering. "I'm cold if it's under twenty-five (78℉). It's just the way I am."

"No wonder you like to stay down south. You'd really hate it if we went somewhere like New York."

"No, thanks. I don't like being cold. This is bad enough."

"Cold is better than being hungry," Penance said as his stomach growled. "Any time. And right now we're kind of both."

"Yeah," agreed Tristan.

Penance watched the afternoon's pedestrian and vehicular traffic. His actual gaze, though, was far away. "Some scientific literature states that humans can go for twenty-one days without food as long as they have water. I heard some guy, I don't remember his name, say he believes that Immortals can only go for about one third of that time before suffering ill effects. Other than a few scraps we've been able to dig out of dumpsters along our journey, we've had not had a decent meal in five days. Looking at how you're shivering in this weather and how it's even starting to get to me, I'm starting to think he was onto something."

"That's frightening," Tristan replied. "That would mean we could actually die faster than normal mortals, right?"

"If what he was hypothesizing was correct, yeah. He was going on about things like hypermetabolic rates and all kinds of things I didn't really understand. All I really got out of it was that bit about starvation. That stuck with me. I do wish I could remember his name, though. It was only about thirty years ago but I can't remember his name at all. Just that he had a cool German accent."

Tristan giggled for few seconds and shivered again.

"What's so funny?" Penance asked him.

"Just that I've made fun of you so many times about your accent and then you say you liked this guy for his. I thought it was funny."

Penance smirked. "Fair enough, I guess."

Neither of the boys were paying much attention to the passersby. They did, however, notice the sound of the scuffing of feet as someone did a double-step and stopped near them. They looked up to see who had arrived. They saw a teenage boy, aged fifteen or so, of moderate height regarding them with interest. The sunlight glinted off his blond hair making it appear almost translucent.

"My word," said the boy, grinning. "I wish I had a camera on me. You two are the absolute personification of misery, aren't you?"

"Hard not to be when you're cold and hungry," admitted Tristan.

The teenager turned his head. Tristan could make out his blue eyes now. "How long has it been since you guys last ate?" he asked.

"Our last real meal was about five days ago," said Tristan. "Mostly a few scraps here and there from the trash since then." He noticed Penance frowned slightly at his mention of this fact and the boy's eyes darted quickly between him and Will all the while.

"And you've been sleeping out here in the streets?" The teen looked back and forth between them, concern apparent in his expression. Both boys nodded back.

"Well," replied the teen. "Why don't you two come with me, then? I live in a house with a few other guys. We can at least offer you a place to sleep for a little while and a few decent meals. It'll be a lot warmer and more comfortable than being out here."

"Sure," agreed Tristan immediately.

"Great," said the teen, extending his hand. "I'm Will. Nice to meet you."

Tristan stood and reached out to shake Will's hand. "I'm Tristan," he replied with cheer.

Also standing, Penance held out his hand, as well. Tristan noticed a much more subdued expression on his face. "Penance," was all he said.

"That's an interesting name," Will commented, smiling."

"He's an interesting guy," said Tristan.

"Cool, let's get to the house, then." With a wave, Will ushered them along.

They did not have to walk long before they arrived at a brick and wood house in a nice subdivision of Charleston. Will paused at the front door only long enough to wipe his feet on the doormat. Twisting the knob, he walked straight inside, leaving the door open for his two guests. He kicked off his shoes and continued further into the living room, waving them to follow him as he went.

"I'm back," he called to the other unseen members of the household.

"We're in the kitchen," replied a deeper voice. "You're just in time for dinner."

Will smiled. "Good. Fix two more plates, then. I brought some hungry people with me."

Tristan and Penance followed Will's example and removed their shoes. As they did, they heard the same unseen voice respond, "Picking up strays again, Will?"

Will laughed and gestured once more for the boys to follow. "You know me. I can't resist the sight of people in need."

"Yeah," said the voice as Will entered the kitchen. "We know you all too well."

Three others were seated around the table, an adult male with red hair and two children, one boy and one girl. The brown-haired boy looked to be around Will's age or perhaps a year younger. The girl, with hair as blonde as Will's, was perhaps twelve or thirteen. They all looked up appraisingly at the guests Will had brought with him.

"So these are the strays," said the man flatly. "Not too bad."

Will laughed at the comment. "Not bad? The last time I brought someone here, it was Nathan and he wasn't bad at all." Will pointed at the brown-haired boy as he spoke. The boy grinned and rose from his seat.

"Hi," he said with a shy grin. "As you already heard, I'm Nathan. That's Gloria over there and that gruff looking guy at the table is Ralph. Please come sit down and I'll fix you two a plate."

"Thank you," replied Penance, his eyes shifting between everyone at the table. He chose a spot against the wall facing all of the other inhabitants. "I'm Penance."

"And I'm Tristan." Sitting next to Penance at the end of the table, he waited for Will to sit, as well. Nathan set a plate of pickled herring, green beans, potato dumplings, and peach cobbler in front of each of the three boys. "Thank you, Nathan."

"You're welcome," smiled the boy. He brought them each a glass of iced sweet tea before returning to his own seat again. "Enjoy," he said.

For the first time since arriving at the house, Ralph grinned at the boys. "Nathan, here, is our resident little chef, among other things. He's quite talented. I think you'll enjoy the meal." Nathan blushed at the compliment.

"Oh, you like to cook, too?" Tristan regarded the boy with interest. "Maybe I can help you. I used to help my parents in the kitchen when I was younger."

"Really? That would be cool! I could use some help."

"So what is this place?" asked Penance. "Some sort of halfway house?"

Will sipped his tea and answered. "Sort of. We all do our own bits to earn our keep. Ralph is our day-to-day boss, so to speak. We each do our part and we get along. Sometimes we have special jobs we need to do, but they're not too bad."

"Special jobs like what?" Penance cut off a piece of herring and chewed, waiting for an answer.

"It's different every time. Stick around for a few days and you'll see. You'll like this place. I guarantee it."

Tristan stared at his plate for a long moment and then looked up at Nathan. "Are these _kumla_?" he asked, referring to the dumplings.

Nathan smiled and nodded. "Yes, I read about them in a magazine. How did you know?"

"My family was Norwegian. We cooked stuff like this all the time." He sliced off a sample of the herring and tried it. "The herring is perfect, by the way."

Nathan's smile grew. "Thank you."

"If you like, I can show you all kinds of other Norwegian recipes, too."

"That would be wonderful," said Nathan.

xxxxxxxxxx

For three days, the boys stayed at the house and helped out in every way they could. Tristan volunteered to assist Nathan with every meal in the kitchen, arising early in the morning to help with breakfast. Penance aided Gloria and Ralph with light housework and the occasional repair. Nothing was too taxing for either of them and they found plenty of time for goofing off. They even dug out board games and played them with the other kids. It was not until the evening of the fourth full day that something out of the ordinary happened.

A car pulled into the driveway followed shortly by a knock at the door. Ralph answered it. Two men stood in the darkness whom he apparently recognized. Addressing them as Jerry and Mike, he invited them inside. He left the door open as they entered.

Tristan, Penance, and Will were playing a game of poker on the floor as the two newcomers arrived. Tristan paid them little attention, his mind on his cards. Penance regarded the men with suspicion. Will, on the other hand, folded his cards in his hand and set them down on the floor, his eyes downcast. This caught Penance's attention all the more. He tapped Tristan's knee with a finger. Looking up from his cards, Tristan glanced around the room. Nathan and Gloria stood at the far end, their hands clasped in front of them and their eyes also downcast, waiting. A third man entered through the door carrying a camera set on a tripod. He kicked the door closed behind him.

"Alright," said one of the new men. "Everyone down to the basement."

Ralph opened the door to the basement and ushered everyone down. Penance and Tristan stood, exchanging confused glances before following Will as he went down the staircase.

Ralph silently assembled all of the children on one side of the basement as the cameraman - Arnie, they learned from the chatter of the other newcomers - fiddled with the tripod. While he worked, Ralph went to another end of the basement, disappearing briefly. He returned moments later dragging an old mattress with him. He threw it down in front of the camera. Going back to the shadowy area, he came back with a few old blankets and spread them over the mattress.

Tristan turned to Will, tapping him on the arm. "What is this?" he asked in a whisper, gesturing to the setup behind him.

"This is the special job I mentioned. We have to perform for the camera."

"Perform like…?" pressed Penance just as quietly.

"Sex. With each other or with Ralph. It's different every time. Like I said, it's not that bad. Those guys sell the movies and Ralph gets a cut. It's how the bills are paid here." Will looked at them sternly. "How did you think we got money for food and everything else? It just appears?"

"No, but…I didn't expect this," replied Tristan.

Will shrugged. "It's just part of the deal. We do this and we get to live here. It's just that easy. You've already eaten our food and slept in our beds. You owe us something for that. This is it. This is the special job. We told you that when you arrived here."

"I…I don't know," stammered Tristan. He looked to Penance for confirmation and saw the boy kneeling down as if tying his shoes. Tristan frowned as Penance stood upright.

"Well, I do," declared Penance. "I'm not doing it. Period. In fact, every fucker in here over eighteen is about to die." Tristan gawked at the sight of Penance's sgian dubh gleaming in his hand.

"But…," Tristan tried to interject, looking at Penance.

"No buts," Penance said louder. "I've seen this kind of shit before, nearly had it happen to me several times. I'm not going to stand for it now."

Tristan put a hand over Penance's wrist, stepping in front of him. "You can't do this," he said softly. "They provided for us, gave us food, a place to sleep. If you kill them, then we're right back where we were a few days ago. What then?"

Tristan pressed harder on his friend's wrist. "No," he whispered. "Look at the other kids. They won't understand what you're doing and, if you do it, you're just throwing them out on the streets along with us."

Penance's jaw dropped in shock. "You really think that's worse than what they're being asked to do here? Fine. You stay here if you want, but I'm not getting involved in this. I'm out."

Without another word, Penance was running up the stairs as fast as he could go. It was several moments before Ralph and the other men realized what he was doing.

"What the fuck?" Ralph finally said as he took off up the stairs. Tristan listened to the heavy thuds of his footsteps as they hammered up to the first story, then to the second. Much slower, and with a great deal more profanity, they returned.

"Well?" asked Jerry or Mike. Tristan still did not know which was which.

"The little fucker grabbed his backpack and jumped out his bedroom window," seethed Ralph. "He's gone." The tall man turned his gleaming hazel eyes on Tristan. "And what about you?" he boomed.

Looking hesitantly up at Will and then back at Ralph, Tristan gulped and took a breath. He could not stop shivering. "I…I'll stay. I owe you, right? I'll stay and pay back what I owe you. Just tell me what I need to do."

xxxxxxxxxx

01 June 2004

Winchester, England

Richard Pritchard stretched his arms over his head and let out a long yawn. He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. Grudgingly, he stood from his transcription of the previous day's records. He ambled over to the dark sheeting that made up the makeshift hidesite next to their window.

"Ready for a break, Marty?"

"Yeah, coming out."

A moment later, Martin Finn appeared from inside. His weary eyes and the day's stubble on his chin heightened the look of fatigue on the man's face.

"You need some sleep, man. You look awful."

"Thanks," he said, running his fingers across his cheek as he spoke. "I think I'll make a run into town take to get a few things before I turn in. Can you think of anything we need?"

Pritchard walked over to the coffee pot and refilled his mug. "Coffee for sure. We're almost out of that. The tea is almost gone, too. Any other food you can think of, of course." He pulled out his wallet and withdrew a handful of notes. "Here's what I've got. I'll make the next trip and contribute more toward our rations that time."

"No problem," said Finn, taking the notes. "I'll be back soon. Keep an eye on the place."

Pritchard nodded and yawned again. He eyed the hide as he approached it. How nice it was to have the double layers of sheeting so they could at least have the lights on in the room. Suppressing another yawn, he pushed both layers aside and stepped inside the hide, set his mug on the floor, and settled down for his turn at the listening equipment.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I must confess, Aadam, those guys you sent me are better than I expected."

Steyn stood in Farid's bedroom, two cups of steaming tea in his hands. He offered one to the Arab. Farid, his dawn prayers finished an hour before, had just completed a long, luxurious shower and was dressed in fresh clothing. He turned to face Steyn.

"Thank you, my friend," he said, accepting the tea. "And why do you say that?"

"As you know, I've rarely had luck with workers from your part of the world. I've made that quite clear."

Farid nodded, a hint of a grin on his lips. He sipped at his tea as he listened.

"These eight men, though, are the opposite. They work as if their very lives depend on it."

Farid chuckled. "Or their afterlives, perhaps."

It was Steyn's turn to grin. "Or that. I was thinking about bringing a few of them over here to move the weapons cache from the basement to the warehouse. Do you have any problem with that?"

Farid thought briefly, his eyes wandering to the bedroom window as he pondered the question. His nostrils flared and his eyebrows rose. Steyn looked at him curiously. Farid shook his and took another sip of tea. He walked casually to his bed, out of the line of sight of the window, and sat.

"No, I think that would be fine. Bring them over this morning." Farid cocked his head toward the street and gestured to his eyes and ear. Steyn did not acknowledge the movements; he currently stood in front of the window, as well. As if nothing were out of the ordinary, he took a moment to take a long pull on his tea.

"I'll do that. I'll give them a call later on." More tea. "It's getting brighter outside, you know. Looks like it will be a nice day. I've gotten in the habit these last few days of a morning walk. I've found it calms the mind, helps you think. Would you care to join me?"

"I'd be delighted, my friend. That sounds like a wonderful idea. Let's finish our tea and do that."

xxxxxxxxxx

01 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"Hello, boys," greeted Ashton from the dining room table. Devon Sather and Vivia Wales sat with him. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

"Am I ever," said Tristan. "Johnny almost ran me to pieces this morning."

Ashton smiled but remained silent as the small boy took a seat and helped himself to the pitcher of orange juice. He drained the glass in seconds and refilled it.

"In my defense," said Johnny from behind him, choosing a seat next to Tristan, "he's already improving. It's only been five days and I can already tell."

Tristan looked at his friend with a touch of shock on his face. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. You'll be even better once we get you some proper shoes and a few other bits of kit." Johnny looked over at Ashton. "Do you think we can do that today?"

"I don't see why not. You can either walk down to the base store or have George take you."

"We'll walk," said Johnny, pouring his own glass of juice. "It will help Tristan stretch a bit and he can learn some of the layout of the base."

"Morning, Daddy," came a tired little voice from the living room.

Another voice followed it, equally tired and almost as high-pitched. "Hi, Daddy."

Tristan turned to see Tally and Marc, both of them clad in their preferred sleeping attire, a pair of shorts only, padding silently into the dining room. Tristan had asked Vivia about this his first morning at the house. Her response had been a shrug, a little grin, and the words, "Tally's eight. What real difference is there between her and an eight-year old boy? If she were twelve, it would be another matter. Besides, it teaches her to be comfortable with her own body."

Vivia had even giggled and added, "Be glad you're not in David's Minoan culture. Women were typically topless or just wore an open vest if they wore anything at all." Tristan had blushed at that thought. Since then, he had come to realize she was right and had come to accept the two children's state of dress, or lack thereof, as completely natural. If he and Johnny slept that way, why couldn't they, especially at that age?

Both of the children went straight to Ashton for their morning hug. They received a peck on the forehead and a rub on the back, as well. Tristan grinned at the way the backrub made each child smile and seem to meld against Ashton, as if they did not want it to end. Marc then clambered up into Ashton's lap. Tally, however, since Vivia was around, pattered over to her, received another hug, and jumped into her lap.

On the other side of the table, Ashton chuckled and said the words he'd repeated several times since they'd arrived from London, "Thick as thieves."

"I still love you, Daddy, but Vivia's not here all the time." Tally leaned back as Vivia squeezed her tighter. The girl's smile broadened.

"I know, pretty girl," said Ashton, "I just enjoy how the two of you get along. That's all."

Vivia smiled back, her chin atop Tally's head. "As if you and Marc aren't the same way."

Ashton looked down at the boy in his lap, slightly tightening the hold around the child's waist to squeeze a grin out of him. "Marc? Really?" Tickling the boy's ribs with a finger and enjoying the laughter it elicited, Ashton remarked in Chinese, a language he knew the two children didn't speak yet, " _Zhège nánhái kěyǐ dàizhe wéixiào xùnfú kuángbào de láng qún."_ (This boy could tame a rabid wolf pack with his smile.)

Everyone else at the table, except Johnny, stared at Vivia as she dissolved into laughter. "You're probably right," she said.

"What?" asked Sather. "What did he say? You know I hate it when you guys do that."

Johnny snickered and whispered the translation into Tristan's ear. Tristan giggled.

"Oh, not you, too," complained Sather.

Johnny turned his most charming smile onto Sather. "Learn some languages, Dev. It comes in handy sometimes, you know."

"I'll have you know, little man, I speak four languages."

Johnny's jaw dropped in mock surprise. "Wow! That's not bad for an American. Can you balance a ball on your nose, too?"

Sather blushed and glared at him. "Keep being a cheeky little bastard, why don't you?"

Vivia patted Sather's hand. "It's okay, dear."

Tristan tapped Johnny on the shoulder. "What do you mean by the ball thing?"

"Didn't you know?" asked Johnny, turning to face his friend, still grinning. "Dev was a SEAL when he was in the navy. I figured he at least learned how to bark and do a few tricks."

Despite his laughter, Sather was now red faced. "I'll get you for that one, Johnny Fairbanks." He bolted out of his chair.

Vivia just grinned and shook her head as Johnny, who had clearly been expecting this, was out of his own seat like a bullet and tearing across the living room, his laughter echoing back into the dining room. Terry, the head cook, stepped forward at the time. The smile on his face said he had been enjoying the banter himself.

"Hello, Terry," said Ashton, facing the cook. Ashton did not care for the greeting, "Good morning," and never used it. No one who knew him took offense.

"Good morning, sir. This looks like a good time to ask about any special orders for breakfast. Also, will the other guests be joining you or sleeping in again?"

"I suspect they'll be sleeping in," replied Ashton. "I'm fine with the usual, please."

Everyone else was giving Terry their preferred meals when Sather returned, a giggling Johnny Fairbanks tucked under one arm. Whenever the boy squirmed in an attempt to escape, a finger under his armpit dug into him causing him to convulse all the more with laughter.

"If you keep wiggling like that, I'm going to drop you, you little devil," protested Sather, grinning as he walked back to the table.

"You're the one tickling me, you silly pinniped. And, if you drop me, I'll escape."

"No, you won't," promised Sather.

When Sather reached Johnny's chair, he took him in both hands, rotated the boy around, and placed him back in his seat. Terry acted as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary.

"And what would you like for breakfast, Johnny?" he asked?

"Pancakes and eggs, please. Lots of both."

"Ah, the usual, then. And for you, Mr. Sather?"

"Johnny's order sounds great to me. I'll have the same, please."

The chit chat and light banter continued until Terry arrived with the food. The two little children slid down from laps and took their own chairs. Vivia agreed to accompany the boys on their walk to the store later that morning. Being officially a retired journalist, though she looked no more than twenty, she had plenty of time. Sather was "going to check on a few things with the boys" and then come back later in the day.

Tristan knew the rest of his day would consist of light training with Johnny and reading. Eventually, just like Johnny, Ashton would have tutors for him based on topics Tristan selected; no more boring elementary school for him.

Sather pushed the dregs of his breakfast away and finished his coffee. He stood.

"Thank you for the breakfast. I'm off."

"You always were, Dev," quipped Johnny.

Sather grinned and cocked back his hand. Johnny pretended to be afraid and help up a piece of pancake as a shield. Sather's grinned faded as his cell phone rang.

"Who the hell is calling at this hour?" he asked the air as he dug into his pocket. He looked at his watch as he palmed the phone. "It's only eight o'clock." He flipped the phone open. "Sather," he said dryly.

As he listened, Devon Sather's face drained of its color. All of the Immortals at the table stopped eating and watched him.

"Got it," he said. "Send me the info. I'll call back on a secure line."

Sather closed the phone. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply.

"What is it, Devon?" asked Ashton, his tone neutral. Johnny and Vivia both turned look at the Minoan. They realized he must have heard at least part of the coded conversation and deduced a portion of its meaning. He only used Sather's first name when the situation was grave.

Sather opened his eyes and looked across the table at Ashton. "I think I'm going to need your help, David."

 _Oh, shit,_ thought Johnny. _It is bad. Dev is using David's first name, too._

"It pertains to something you're working on, too," continued Sather.

Ashton gently laid his fork down on his plate and touched his napkin to his lips. Slowly standing, he said, "Of course. This way."

xxxxxxxxxx

"You can use this phone, Devon," said Ashton. "It can be masked to appear to come from any number you wish and is completely secure." They were in Ashton's NextGen operations center. Everyone who worked within it could be trusted to be discreet. Ashton sat on the corner of the desk while Sather examined the equipment in front of him.

"Thank you, David." Sather sat in front of his laptop computer, tapping furiously on the keys. He frowned at what he saw. "Shit," he muttered. He picked up the phone and listened to the prompt. Entering a number from memory, he listened again and entered another number. Finally, it rang.

"Sather," he said simply when an exasperated voice answered on the other side. "What the fuck happened?"

"Who were these pinheads assigned to watch anyway?"

A pause.

"What? Why wasn't I told this earlier?"

He listened, tapping more keys and reading as he did so. "Is there anyone on site at the moment?"

More listening.

"Get a Guardian team on site to monitor activity at that location now. I don't care if you have to get the fucking EDOW out of bed to authorize it. I'm going to arrange for some other… special help, if I can. I'll call back later. Sather out."

He hung up. "Fuck," he fumed, slamming his palm on the desk.

"What happened, Devon?" Ashton asked again.

"One of my Watchers in Winchester, Richard Pritchard, a new kid, has been either taken hostage or killed, I don't know which. His partner, Martin Finn, has booked it and is in hiding until he can be safely extracted."

Ashton nodded solemnly. "Who were they watching?" he asked quietly.

Sather looked up at the Immortal, his eyes wavering slightly. "Aadam Farid and Charles Steyn."

Ashton released a puff of air, a sarcastic smirk on his face. "And your people didn't tell you for fear you might inform me of this fact."

Sather nodded. "They were right. To hell with that oath of ours sometimes. I heard that recording and the translation of it. If I knew where Farid was, you're damn right I would have told you."

Ashton put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Thank you."

"But now I need your help, David. I need to get my man back, if he's not dead already."

"Of course." Ashton glanced at Sather's laptop and pointed. "Is the information there?"

"Yes, they sent me everything Finn and Pritchard had uploaded to them as of yesterday. We can assume all their equipment on site is now compromised, of course. We need to try getting that back, too, if we can."

"Naturally." Ashton stood. "Niles, Wendell, Robyn, warning order. Hostage situation in Winchester. Unknown number of hostiles. Activate third and fourth teams and the entire sniper section of Delta Company. That might be overkill, but we don't want to take any chances. I don't think we'll necessarily need Alan for this one, but notify him anyway." Alan Weatheral, besides being a superb marksman himself, was also NextGen's top hostage negotiator.

Ashton gestured to Sather. "This is Devon Sather, whom most of you already know. He will be accompanying us on this outing. It is one of his people who is currently being held captive. The hostage takers, boys and girls, are Aadam Farid and Charles Steyn."

There was a collective gasp in the room. "That's right," said Ashton. "We have an opportunity here. Let's seize it."

xxxxxxxxxx

01 June 2004

Winchester, England

Pritchard's head was splitting with pain. Well, that meant he was still alive, at least. He tried to open his eyes. There was some sort of crust over them. He brought a hand up to rub it away. Or he tried. His hands… and his feet… were restrained. With more effort on his eyelids, the crust broke and they opened. He closed them again and shook his head to rattle the bits away. The motion made his head hurt more. He groaned.

He opened his eyes again and looked around. He was on a bed, naked and spread eagled, each limb tied down. The confusion was brief. The memory flooded back to him. Sitting at his surveillance equipment equipment. The Immortals going for a walk. Him going to the loo and checking the laptop. A click at the door just before it burst inward. Steyn's grinning face in the doorway. Typing a four-character code into the laptop before a bludgeon turned his world into darkness.

 _It was those fucking sheets. I moved both of them at the same time when I went inside. I was supposed to move one then they other. They must have seen the light. Damn me and my carelessness._

Pritchard glanced around the room. He saw no sign of Finn. Heard no sign, either. _Did he get away?_

He didn't have time to think about anything else. Aadam Farid opened the bedroom door and walked in at that moment, Charles Steyn close behind him.

"Ah, wonderful," said Farid, raising his hand in a mock clap. "Our guest is awake. Now perhaps we can have a little conversation before lunch."

Farid approached the bed, carrying a chair with him. Steyn did the same. Farid sat near Pritchard's chest, facing his head, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and smiling like he were visiting an old friend in hospital. Steyn sat further back.

"Now," said Farid, his smile bright. "Decorum would suggest we start with introductions." Placing a hand on his chest, he said, "I am Aadam." He indicated Steyn. "And this is Charles. What, pray tell, is your name?"

Pritchard said nothing.

Farid leaned back, as if hurt. "Oh, come, come. Surely, you can tell me your name. That cannot violate any law or policy or belief you may have. Come now." Farid leaned forward again, the smile back in place.

Pritchard turned his face to the ceiling. "Richard," he said dully.

"Ah, much better." Farid spread his hands wide as if accepting a great gift. "That is wonderful, Richard. Now we can begin to talk. Can you tell me what you were doing in that house across the street?"

Pritchard was silent again.

"Well, perhaps that was too complicated. Let's start with a simpler question. Where is your accomplice?"

Silence.

"Oh, Richard, don't disappoint me like this. I am a man who values education and I can tell there is much I can learn from you. I wish only to engage in some spirited conversation. My partner here," he indicated Steyn again, "well, he is a man of some other interests, I'm afraid. I would not wish to leave you under his care. Conversation is not necessarily his strongest trait."

Pritchard didn't respond. He continued staring at the ceiling.

Farid sat back in his chair, hands on his knees. The smile was gone.

"You sadden me, Richard. I had hoped we could be friends. Now it looks like that cannot be. Charles," he turned to Steyn, "would you talk to Richard after lunch, please?"

Steyn nodded but said nothing. Silently, the two men took their chairs, put them back where they had been, and left the room. The door clicked shut behind them.

xxxxxxxxxx

01 June 2004

Bristol, England

Per Devon Sather's orders, Martin Finn was evacuated from Manchester. He was moved west to Bristol. The Executive Director of the Watchers (EDOW) had approved the activation of two two-man Guardian detachments, one to monitor activities of Farid's safehouse and a plainclothes unit to provide security for Finn. Due to the firearms laws in Britain, the Guardians had to be especially inconspicuous in their carrying of weapons.

Ashton, Dublin, and Sather flew by helicopter to meet Finn that afternoon. Ashton sent advance word for Finn and his security men to meet them at The Milk Thistle pub in town.

"I figure your man could use a drink," Ashton had replied when Sather had given him a quizzical look. They took a taxi to the pub and ordered drinks while they waited.

"What do you know about Finn?" asked Dublin. "Anything we should know in advance?"

"He's not the type to panic easily," replied Sather. "He's actually got more time in the Watchers than I do. He's a good man. He's one of those that stays in the field because he loves it, not because he's lacking in leadership qualities. He's one of my best guys when it comes to training new Watchers. This has got to be tearing him apart." Sather slammed his Old Fashioned.

The Irishman nodded. "Aye, I know that type well," he said, eyeing Sather closely. He glanced at Ashton who was also watching Sather's reactions.

Sather kept talking. "I did some more reading. Pritchard was newly assigned to watch Farid. Finn was his shadow as a partner and a trainer since he was still so new. Pritchard has only been in the Watchers for a year. According to their reports, they were using a laser listening device to eavesdrop of Farid's conversations, transcribing those which were in English, and uploading all of up back to us."

"Can you get copies of those recordings for us" asked Ashton.

"Of course. Anything. A lot of them are in Arabic so neither Pritchard nor Finn could understand them. I'm sure you two and many of your people will."

Ashton and Dublin nodded at this. Sather continued.

"If we can't get Pritchard's computer back, by the way, we have to destroy it. If the security on it is cracked, it could expose the Watchers."

"We'll take care of that. Don't worry," assured Dublin.

"The reports said they were taking shifts, Pritchard on days and Finn on nights. They were in a house across from Farid. They'd built a hide out of black sheets so they could use the rest of the room without being seen. I'm not sure what happened, what gave them away."

"One little mistake is all it takes usually," said Ashton.

Sather nodded sadly. "Yeah, it is." He looked up to see Finn walking toward them, his two security men right behind him. "Here he his." All three men moved farther into the booth to make room for the new arrivals.

"Gentlemen," said Finn, once they were seated. He sat next to Sather, a Guardian next to him. Finally noticing the two Immortals across from him, he gawked openly.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Finn," said Ashton, grinning at him. When Finn didn't answer immediately, Ashton pushed his untouched Scotch over to him. "Perhaps this will calm your nerves. It's fine stuff."

"Thank you," replied Finn, taking the glass in quivering fingers. He downed the eighteen-year old Macallan like a parched man and gasped with relief. "Oh, it certainly is. I apologize for wasting such fine Scotch with such an ill manner and for my grotesque staring. I knew Director Sather would likely approach you for assistance. I just didn't expect it so quickly." Setting the glass on the table, he asked politely, "May I perhaps order another?"

Ashton waved his hand dismissively. "Help yourself. Your "friends," as well. It's my dime, as the Americans would say."

A waiter approached and took their orders, a Scotch for Ashton and Finn, water and a soda for the Guardians, another Old Fashioned for Sather. Once the drinks arrived, Sather took charge.

"Okay, Martin, tell us what happened. What did you see?"

"I didn't see that much, really. I had just finished my night shift. Richard was transcribing the previous day's recordings. I said I was going to make a run to the store for some coffee and other things before I went to bed.

"I parked half a block away and was walking back with my shopping. I had just turned the corner to the back of the house we were using as our observation point when I saw Farid and Steyn come out carrying Richard. They each had an arm and were dragging him along. He had blood on his forehead and looked to be unconscious or at least unable to walk on his own at the time. I'm pretty sure he was alive.

"I stayed where I was and watched for a time. They came back and cleared the place out of the equipment we were using, the computers, the surveillance gear, and whatnot, and took it across the street. They returned once more and I guess they searched the rest of the house. They must not have found anything that interested them because they left a while later. I didn't feel safe staying there any longer so I pulled back and called in. I then waited until an extraction team could get me out. Here we are."

His hands still shaking, Finn picked up his new glass and took a smaller pull on his Scotch.

"I shouldn't have left Richard alone," he mourned.

"As much as it hurts to hear it," said Sather, "it's good that you did. If you had been there, too, you'd be dead or captured, as well, and we would have no idea what had happened. Just two Watchers who disappeared on the job and no clue as to why."

Finn nodded and sipped from his glass again.

"We've got people heading there now, Mr. Finn," Dublin promised him. "They'll be on site tonight. We have you to thank for that."

xxxxxxxxxx

02 June 2004

Winchester, England

True to Dublin's word, an advance team of four NextGen men were on site the night before. Getting the rest of the two twelve-man direct action teams and the eight-man sniper team, as well as Ashton, Dublin, Sather, Alan Weatheral, and seven support personnel on site unnoticed in an urban area was the real challenge. Doing that took a phased arrival from multiple directions over the course of several hours.

The necessary equipment was another issue. They all had to travel light in order to arrive absolutely unobserved. Fortunately, creativity was one area in which Ashton's men excelled. Despite having to either wear heavy packs and move slowly through darkened neighborhoods or hand carry equipment, all the gear the men needed arrived by noon on the second of June.

All of the houses on the block for available for lease. One of Ashton's men had spent all of the previous day on the phone - and spent a great deal of money in the process - convincing the property owner to lease all of the houses for the rest of the year to a company that had suddenly sprung into existence that very day. They did learn some interesting information during the call. One house, the one occupied by Farid, had been leased by the same person for the last seven years while the other, the one the Watchers had been using, had just been leased out for the next three months.

Ashton set up his headquarters on 1 Norman Road, the house farthest from Farid's, so his and Dublin's presence wouldn't be felt the enemy Immortals. He listened as one man talked with local law enforcement to inform them to stay away from any Saint Cross Road or Norman Road as a military counter-terrorist action was in progress. No word was to be given to the press.

"Government and local law notified, sir," the man reported, setting down his microphone.

"Thank you, sergeant," Ashton replied. He turned to Alan Weatheral. On top of his numerous other skills, Weatheral was also the operations sergeant major, the senior enlisted man in the operations center. "What do we have in there, Alan?"

"Sir," reported Weatheral, "the best place for observation, the house the Watchers were using, was burned so we had to set up in the surrounding houses. We still have fairly good line of sight for the thermal optics, though. We're picking up eight heat signatures in the target house. One of them has been relatively stationary since our arrival. We assume that one is Pritchard. Also, they haven't bothered to cover their windows so we have positive ID on Farid and Steyn."

"Let's see it," said Ashton. Weatheral signaled a radioman to notify the operator of that particular observation device. Sather came cross the room to stand next to Ashton. They stood in front of a monitor. In moments, they saw a reddish humanoid shape in a sitting position.

"Why is he quivering like that?" asked Sather.

"He's either very cold or," replied Ashton, taking a closer look at the screen, "he doesn't have a chair. Look. It's his legs that are shaking the most."

Sather's eyes widened. "They're torturing him."

Ashton nodded. "Yes. A simple but effective method. Sit with your back against the wall with no chair and stay there. No one can do it for long no matter how fit they are."

At that moment, the figure collapsed. Another red figure came storming in, gesticulating wildly. The men could imagine the shouting and expletives being hurled at Pritchard, demanding that he resume his position or face greater pain. They could almost hear the pitiful sobs of the young man as he struggled to comply. He took the seated position again but fell seconds later. It was obvious he had reached his physical limit.

Another figure entered the room, calmer than the first. This one stood before Pritchard. The three men at the monitor could see the second man bring a hand to his chin, stroking it as he asked questions. Apparently not satisfied with the answers he received, he turned to the first man and gave instructions before leaving. The first man stomped over to Pritchard, demanding that he stand again. Pritchard slowly did so. He received a slap in the face. He head recoiled from the blow. The first man tied one hand, then the other, then tied them both above Pritchard's head. After a harsh punch in the stomach, he left the Watcher standing there.

Ashton hissed. "Another simple one. He's left to stand until he's completely exhausted. If he tries to rest, it exerts painful pressure on his wrists and shoulders. He might doze off for a little while, but the pain will wake him. He might even be suspended slightly higher than flat footed which only makes it worse."

Sather gazed at Ashton but said nothing. He wanted to comment on how he could tell Ashton had to be speaking from experience about these tortures but, in this room full of non-Watchers, it would not be proper to do so. He just nodded to himself and looked back at the screen.

"The poor bastard," he said simply. After another moment, he huffed and turned to Ashton. "When can you go in?"

"Alan?" Ashton asked.

"Well, sir, we'd like to wait until dark, of course, but that's," Weatheral checked his watch, "four hours away. It's only 1730. We can move now if you give the word. It's just a lot riskier to the boys."

Ashton stood silently, weighing the pros and cons in his mind. Sather saw the pointer finger of his left hand rubbing lightly against his thumb as he considered his options. The finger stopped. He had made a decision.

"No, Alan. Wait until darkness falls. Send team three only. Team four and the snipers will cordon the area as best they can to prevent egress."

"Yes, sir," said Weatheral. He bent to his microphone to send the orders.

Ashton turned to face Sather. The Watcher nodded to him, knowing it was the right choice. His time in the SEALs and hostage rescue has taught him that much. Make use of every advantage. Twelve men with weapons running toward a house in broad daylight was too much of a risk both to the men and to Pritchard. It was best to wait.

Sather clenched his fist. Waiting was so damn hard.

xxxxxxxxxx

19 April 1973

Charleston, South Carolina

Tristan withdrew the needle from his arm and dropped it on the floor. Sighing deeply, he popped the plastic tubing from around his upper arm and leaned back against the wall. He chuckled softly and let the warmth spread throughout his body.

"Oh, man," he purred, his tongue dry now. He let his heavy arms fall to his sides, relishing in the extreme rush of the drug coursing through his veins. His lids drooped along with his head, his whole being awash in ecstatic sluggishness.

He had no idea how long he sat there, his body supported only by the wall. He knew only that the sudden electric shock he felt interrupted his pleasure and he didn't like it. What was that feeling? he wondered. He knew it was supposed to mean something. He just couldn't remember what it was. Grudgingly, he pulled himself to his knees and looked around the room. There was nothing there that he saw that should have given him such a feeling.

A tap at his window drew his attention. With glacial slowness, he turned his head toward it. Something was there. He struggled to make out what it was. Only a meter from the glass, he edged himself closer and pushed the window open. The cool April air of springtime hit him in the face. He barely noticed it. The phantom apparition behind the glass was slightly clearer, though. It was that of a young boy. Tristan thought it was somewhat familiar. Slowly, a name came to his lips.

"Penance?" he muttered.

"Nice that you still recognize me as high as you are," said the boy.

"How do you know I'm high?" Tristan asked him.

"It takes an addict to know one, Tristan." The boy indicated the discarded needle on the floor. "You might not believe it but I'm using, too, but for different reasons."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Penance said slowly. "Like I said, for different reasons. I came to check on you. I was hoping I wouldn't find you still here. I thought you'd have come to your senses by now. Instead, they've got their hooks into you even deeper."

Tristan stared at the boy in the tree outside his window for a long time. His cloudy eyes blinked slowly. With a heavy tongue, he finally said, "You left me here but you're using, too. That doesn't make sense to me."

Penance shook his head, his sadness obvious. "Our bodies are all we have. What we choose to do with them is our business. We shouldn't let others decide what to do with them. That's why I couldn't agree to this. Drugs, well, that's another matter. That's my decision. But this, this will destroy you. You have to leave this place, Tristan."

"I don't think I can. I owe them, don't I? They gave me a place to live. Food to eat. Don't I have to repay them somehow?"

"And when does it stop? How long does the boy who never ages have to keep making these movies for them?"

Tristan didn't reply. He just stared at Penance.

"That's right," said Penance, nodding. "As long as they can keep you drugged and complicit. And, even better for them, as long as they can keep you young and cute, which is forever. Those other kids will eventually get too old for them, but not you. You'll be just perfect for them for as long as they're in the business. And as long as the people that replace them are in the business, too."

Tristan shivered, but still said nothing. Penance shrugged.

"Who knows? Maybe they won't use you for porn the whole time. Maybe they'll realize they have some kind of scientific anomaly on their hands and decide to send you to a lab. Then they can run all kinds of experiments on you and try to find out why you never age. What makes the Immortal boy tick? How would you like that? They'll stick you all full of needles and it won't even be the fun kind."

"You're full of shit now," blurted Tristan, his whole body swaying.

"Maybe, maybe not," said Tristan, shifting on his branch, an impish grin on his face. "Can you really afford to stick around here and take that chance?" His grin faded. "Look, Tristan, the longer you're here, the deeper down the pit you're going to sink. Before long, you're going to end up like that boy, Will, and start seeking out other kids to pull into this trap. Do you really want to do that?"

"They…they wouldn't…"

"Do you honestly think he was just wandering down the street that day?" Penance let the question hang in the air. Tristan stared at him again, his open mouth hanging loosely.

"No," said Penance, shaking the branch above his lightly for emphasis. "He was out fishing. And he found two nice little carp for his net. They didn't even fight him. They just swam right into his net. Remember what that guy Ralph said? Even Will said it. He brought that boy, Nathan, there, too."

"But…"

"How long are you going to fight me on this?"

"But he's helping lost, hungry kids."

"By feeding them just enough to survive, having them make porn films, and getting them hooked on drugs? That's keeping them in chains, not helping them out. Have they done anything to actually improve you? Like send you to school or give you any money?"

"Well, no, they…"

"So, you're completely dependent on them for everything. And you'll only keep getting what you need, be it food or drugs, as long as you keep letting them fuck you over and over on camera."

It was rare for Penance to use such harsh language. When he did now, it sent a shudder through Tristan's body. He rose higher in his kneeling position, looking the boy straight in the eyes, a dark scowl on his face.

"You don't like that, eh?" Penance asked. Tristan shook his head, still frowning. "Good. I'm glad something got through that thick skull."

He reached into a pocket of his jeans and withdrew a folded square of paper. Judging the distance with care, the tossed it through the open window.

"Take care of that," he said. "It the address where I'm staying. If you come to your senses and leave this place, come see me. I'll be there at least until the end of the school year so you've only got another month or so."

Penance began a slow descent of the tree. He paused only for a moment to look back at Tristan. "Don't think about it for too long," he warned. "You're my friend, but I'm not going to come back again. The decision to sink or not is up to you."

With those final words, Penance dropped down to the ground and vanished into the night.

xxxxxxxxxx

02 June 2004

Hereford, England

"Whatcha doin', Paula?" asked Raven. She and an exhausted looking Tristan stood at her bedroom door.

"Working. What's it look like?"

"This late?"

"I was lazy and didn't do anything all day so I'm getting a late start. Don't just stand there. Come on in."

They strode into the room and gathered around her. On her laptop was an indecipherable display of figures that had to make sense to someone, but not to them. Raven stared blankly at the screen; Tristan seemed suddenly energized. He leaned in closer.

"So this is what you do?" Raven queried. "Stare at weird numbers all day?"

Paula chuckled. "Not really. Among other things, I'm an econometrician."

"A what?"

"I analyze the effects certain things have on a nation's economy, make predictions, and report it to my company. I also figure out how much the use of one practice or another impacts the country's economy."

"Like what?" asked Tristan.

"Like is it better to ship goods to France over the Channel by ship or by rail through the Channel Tunnel, or Chunnel, as they like to call it."

"And?" Tristan pushed.

"Even when you factor in having to use multiple Chunnel shuttles to get the same amount of cargo across the channel as one freighter, it still turns out it's better to go by Chunnel. The stuff gets there faster and cheaper and, whether it's going to somewhere in France or elsewhere in Europe, it's available for transport much faster. Time is just as important as money in business."

"Sooo," said Raven, dragging out the word, "you're like a weatherman. You try to predict the future. You're also a day planner. You tell people how to save time."

Paula laughed aloud. "I guess that's one simple way of putting it."

"How much does a weather forecasting day planner make these days?" Raven asked, taking a closer look at the figures.

"The really good ones, like me, make about £100,000 per year."

"What?" barked Raven. "That beats the shit out of bartending. Even when you count my little bit of peddling "other stuff" on the side. Wow!"

"Hey," Paula said, turning in her chair. "I thought you had to go back to work at the end of last week."

Tristan jumped in with part of the answer to her question. "David fixed it for her," he said with a grin.

"He did?"

"Yes," Ray continued, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Last Thursday, he asked me if I wanted to stay longer. I said yes and he then asked me where I worked. When I said The Wellington, he said he knew the person who owned the place."

"Who is that?" Paula inquired.

Laughing, Raven answered, "He does. He called the manager, Owen Mathis, and said he wanted me to be his personal bartender for the "for an indefinite period" and would be picking up my salary during that time. He just wanted Owen to guarantee my position when I come back. Owen said he would."

"So you work for Ashton now?"

"Kinda sorta yes and no. He said he doesn't really need a bartender on a regular basis except for the occasional social event. Pretty much, I'm free to do as I want. We worked out a deal. I can live in the staff apartments here on the estate with no utility costs and have a reduced salary while I'm not working - it's still easily livable, though, especially with the apartment deal - and full salary for the week leading up to and after an event.

"I have only one real responsibility besides the special events. There's a small staff pub tucked away somewhere on the estate. It's open on Sundays through Thursdays only. I'd be there for a four up to twelve hour shift per day, depending on what they need."

"That could be rough," said Paula.

"Yeah, but he said the pub manager has rarely had to put anyone on a twelve-hour shift other than herself and that was one time. Anyway, I thought it was more than a fair deal. I came come and go from the estate at I please. I can also leave this agreement at any time, if I choose."

"What's the salary?" asked Paula.

"Five hundred pounds per week when I'm working at the pub and £750 per week when I'm preparing for the special events."

Paula's brows rose. "Wow! I'd never go back to tending bar in London if I could make that much doing half the work here. I'd stay here forever."

"Right! I just might do that, too." Raven's eyes brightened. "There's another thing."

"What's that?" Paula's face showed genuine interest.

Raven's expression changed. "I just got it. This is what you guys were smiling about at the hotel, I bet. Oh, well, I don't care. He's getting me new braces for my legs. And there are no strings to them. They're just a gift. I'll be able to walk a even better than I was before."

"That's awesome!" Tristan crowed.

"Yes, it is," Ray agreed. She looked into Tristan's eyes. "You have awesome friends, little guy."

Tristan smirked. "Hey, we're practically the same height."

"Semantics," she said with a laugh.

xxxxxxxxxx

02 June 2004

Winchester, England

Sunset came at 2114 that night. Actual darkness took another forty minutes to arrive, however. The twelve men who would make the assault and their commanders in the operations center were all growing impatient. Ashton had decided the time for the attack would be 2200. That was three minutes away.

Sather stood in front of the monitor with the thermal imaging display. Eight reddish white humanesque figures, one still quivering in the corner, filled it. The Watcher scowled at the figure a few centimeters away from the Pritchard figure, the intimidator.

"I want that guy's head on a pike," Sather whispered to himself.

"What's that?" asked Ashton, Weatheral and Dublin looking up as well.

Sather grinned maliciously. "I was just thinking that, in the old days, I would say, "I want that guy's head on a pike,"" he pointed at the intimidator, "and that bastard right there would be decapitated and brought to me. That's all."

Weatheral chuckled. "Just wait, son. Our boys haven't had their chance, yet."

"It's time, sergeant major," said Ashton.

"Yes, sir." Weatheral keyed his microphone, the ready signal, and handed it to Ashton.

Ashton pushed the button on the microphone and spoke six words, "This is Nightmare Six. Execute. Out."

Handing the mic back to Weatheral, Ashton turned his gaze back to the monitor. Sather smirked at Ashton. "Nightmare?" He did not recognize that NextGen used American-style radio call signs instead of British battle code.

"Hmph," Ashton said. "Not my choice."

"No, it wasn't," interjected Dublin, "but anyone who's seen him in a firefight knows it's a fitting callsign. When he asked us to come up with a regimental callsign, we kinda forced it on him." Dublin grinned.

"Twenty meters from the house," announced the radioman. The banter ceased immediately. There were no map boards, helmet cameras, or video displays. The only sort of visual update available was the thermal imaging display. Ashton, Sather, and the sergeants major gathered around that monitor.

"Entering the house now," said the radioman. "One down."

xxxxxxxxxx

Sergeant Ben Sherman was the first man to the door of the house. He paused at the door and waited until the rest of the team was ready. At a nod from his team leader, he reached out and examined the door for traps and explosives. Nothing. He then touched the door handle; it was not locked. Looking back at his team leader, he mouthed, "What the fuck?"

Sherman's team leader nodded again, the go signal. Both of the two men behind Sherman had a hand on the shoulder on the man in front of him. Sherman touched the hand of the man behind him to signal his readiness; the man behind him did the same. A double-tap came forward, signalling ready; a squeeze meant not ready.

Sherman stepped forward, took the door handle, slowly turned it until it came free, and then slammed his shoulder into it, using his body as a brace. There was no one behind the door. One man was in front of him, standing at the television. He turned, bewildered. He grappled for a pistol at his hip. Sherman peeled left and fired from his silenced submachine gun. The man crumpled to the floor, still weakly pawing for his weapon. Movement to the left caught Sherman's eye. A man on a couch was also reaching for a weapon. Sherman fired a burst at him, catching him in the shoulder. Another burst in the chest took him down. The NextGen man behind Sherman, Simon Nichols, finished off the television viewer.

"One down," reported Sherman over his helmet-mounted radio, continuing to move. The other three-man sections would move to predetermined parts of the house. Sherman took the stairs in front of him two at a time. An Arabic face above peaked over the railing and ducked back. "Two down," he heard Nichols belatedly report. The man above came into view again, a pistol in hand. The first shot went past Sherman's head. He heard Nichols curse behind him. The second shot slammed into Sherman's chest like a heavyweight boxer's punch. His body armor absorbed it, but it still took his breath away, knocking him to a knee.

Nichols placed his submachine gun on Sherman's shoulder and fired a long burst. The intimidator was already moving, but not before taking two rounds in his left arm. Nichol's stormed past Sherman with Collin Dorn, the third member of the section, close behind him. The intimidator turned again, taking a wild shot at the pair from the bedroom in which he was hiding. Nichols swore again, stumbling as the bullet ripped into right thigh.

Dorn pushed his teammate out of the line of fire. The intimidator's next pistol shot hit the abdominal area of Dorn's own body armor and threw off his first burst of return first, knocking it low. The three bullets chewed into the intimidator's left left shin and knee instead of his chest. The intimidator crashed to the floor. Cursing in Arabic, the intimidator rolled over, taking aim at the nude man tied to the wall. Dorn fired another burst. The initimdator's head splattered across the floor as his pistol fired. Pritchard screamed as the bullet tore into his flesh.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Three down," they heard Dorn report over the team frequency. A moment later, "Top floor secure. One man down, zero KIA. Medical support required."

"What is the status of the hostage?" asked Weatheral.

xxxxxxxxxx

"We've got the door for you, Dorn," called Sherman.

"You alright?" shouted Dorn from the bedroom.

"Yeah, just took my breath away."

"Check Simon while you're at it."

"I'll make it. It's not that bad."

"Don't go quoting Monty Python right now," growled Sherman, "or I'll buttstroke you."

"Aw, Ben, I didn't know you cared that much," grinned Nichols. "Besides, all I was going to say was there's nothing wrong with me that an expensive operation can't prolong."

Sherman burst out laughing. "That wasn't the quote I had in mind, but okay. I'll let that one slide."

Chuckling himself, Dorn turned his attention back to the man hanging in front of him. He scrutinized him carefully. "Okay, buddy, how are you? Still with me?"

There was no answer. Dorn pulled off a glove with his teeth and put it to the man's chest. Still warm. One good sign. He held the hand to the man's open mouth. Warm air. Dorn grinned.

Slipping the glove back on his hand, Dorn purred, "That's it, my man. Stay with me."

He pulled a knife from his belt and began working on the ropes.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Hostage is wounded, dehydrated, but alive."

There was an uproarious cheer throughout the command center. There were many handshakes and even a hug or two. Ashton turned to Sather, a smile on his face. Sather, also smiling, took his hand.

"Thank you, David."

"I'm glad to help, Devon. It's been a good day, so far."

The radio crackled again. "House secure. Five hostiles down."

Ashton's smile faded. He swiveled to look at the radio. "Five? Where are the other two?"

Another crackle. "We found a door leading to a tunnel. Sub-sections one and two following it now."

Sather had rarely seen Ashton truly angry. Once during the Watcher-Immortal War, yes, so, he did not think this was one of those times. Irritated might be a better description of this situation. Ashton said nothing. Dublin and Weatheral knew what to do.

Weatheral bent to the microphone. "Medical and intelligence teams to the objective. Sub-sections three and four maintain security, report whether any of the downed hostiles are Farid or Steyn, and assist the medical team in evacuating the hostage. Clear the objective. Break."

Taking a breath, Weatheral prepared to speak again. "Outer cordon, do you see anything? All stations, report."

"Station one, nothing."

"Station two, nothing."

The frustration in the room grew as each station reported the same. After the outer cordon report ended, more depressing news arrived.

"This is Delta Three Six. Farid and Steyn are not among the downed hostiles. Over."

xxxxxxxxxx

06 May 1974

Charleston, South Carolina

It was Tristan's turn to climb a tree. After sitting there for awhile, he saw Penance in the bedroom nearest him. The electric sensation of his presence sizzled along Tristan's spine. Penance looked toward the window. There was just enough length to one of the branches for Tristan to lean out and knock on the window. He did so mostly out of courtesy. Penance slid the pane open.

"Hi, stranger," he said lightly, propping his chin in his palms. "Fancy seeing you in my tree. That's two friends in two weeks."

"Really? Someone was here last week?" Penance nodded. "Who?"

"More like ten days or so. Don't worry about it right now," Penance suggested. "It's a long story. What's up?"

"You were right. About everything. Tonight, Will came to my room and said I had been there long enough to take on some new responsibilities. He said I was to start roaming the streets and start looking for new kids for the house."

Tristan hung his head, fidgeting on his branch. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "Gloria is gone. I don't know what happened to her. Four days ago, she said she didn't want to make the films anymore. Said they were gross. Ralph took her away in his car and came back a few hours later. He wouldn't answer when I asked where she was." Tristan sniffed, his nostrils congested. "I think he killed her."

Penance nodded and folded his arms on the window sill. He remained silent. Tristan continued, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn as he spoke. "I thought about leaving that night, but Ralph was pacing most of the night. I decided to wait a few days. It just got worse from there. I learned something else, too."

"What's that?"

"I can't stop the urge to take more heroin. I haven't shot up since Gloria went away and it's killing me. I've hardly slept and I ache all over."

Penance nodded. "Yeah, that's the start of it." He frowned. "Well, you'll have company in your misery. I'm quitting, too. I decided just now. I'm also leaving this place. I see you have your backpack. You ready to go now?"

"Yeah. How about you?"

"Give me a few minutes. Climb down. I'll meet you at the front door. I'll fix us a snack and tell you my long story as we walk."

Tristan complied, dropping to the ground quietly, and waited in the shadows by the door. He wondered if Penance's family had a dog. He didn't hear any barking if they did. Either there wasn't one or the animal was asleep. Ten minutes later, he heard a soft click as the doorknob turned. Penance slipped through the door, his tartan backpack over his shoulder. He pressed a turkey sandwich on wheat bread into Tristan's hand and shut the door. The boys trotted off into the darkness.

They walked for two hours, well past midnight. All the while, Penance regaled Tristan with a fascinating story about a girl he had met at school. She had a bossy countenance, but had eventually befriended him. Besides that, she had taught him a nice little dance to accompany a tune they liked to play. They had planned to perform it as part of the school talent competition later that month. Other events had ruined those plans, though.

"She showed up in that same tree you were in almost two weeks ago," Penance continued. "She said something about how she wasn't supposed to be associating with me and her parents were very displeased. Something about rules and she had to move away immediately. I didn't know what was going on and she didn't have time to explain. Her parents drove by soon after that and she jumped down and disappeared."

"Oh, my gosh," replied Tristan. "That's horrible. And just weird. What kind of rules wouldn't let a girl talk to a boy in her school?"

"I don't know. I could never make sense of it, either. There were a lot of things about her I never understood. Like her tattoo."

"Tattoo? I've never heard of a girl in junior high with a tattoo."

"Neither have I," concurred Penance, "but she had one. Right there on inside of her left wrist. It was bluish. It had two concentric circles with thirteen blue dots between the two circles. In the center of the second circle was kind of a Y-ish cross or a birdlike figure filling the whole of the center. It was really odd. She usually wore a bracelet or long sleeves to cover it, but every now and then, I could see it. I figured it was some kind of cult thing." Shrugging, Penance added, "Maybe that's what she meant by rules. Rules of the cult."

Tristan shook his head in disbelief. "Maybe, but I've never heard of a cult like that before. That's just crazy, if you ask me."

"What cult isn't?"

"Good point," said Tristan, grinning.


	20. (Just Like) Starting Over

Author's Note: I would like to thank my friend, Misty Gravelin, for her work on the 479 BCE flashback scene…although I have added a line or two.

"It's been too long since we took the time  
No-one's to blame, I know time flies so quickly  
But when I see you darling  
It's like we both are falling in love again  
It'll be just like starting over"

'(Just Like) Starting Over' - John Lennon

03 June 2004

Hereford, England

The morning staff was surprised to see Ashton and Dublin at physical training the next morning. Though they looked a little tired from the night's operation, they still completed their usual workouts and were just as attentive as always to the morning briefing. They also arrived on time to work and even made an appearance at the base hospital to visit Nichols. Besides the leg injury, Nichols also had an abbreviated left earlobe from the shot that had narrowly missed Sherman. Ashton and Dublin also visited Pritchard. Ashton had insisted the Watcher receive medical care at the same hospital. Ashton had declared that if there were any problems with who paid for the treatment, the National Health Service or private insurance, if Pritchard had any, then it was to be billed directly to Ashton for payment. The two senior leaders even made a visit to team three of Delta company to recognize Nichols - despite his absence - Sherman, and Dorn for their performance during the raid. They then called it an early day and retired to Ashton's house.

"So," Sather inquired, "they didn't say at the morning brief. Where did Steyn and Farid go?"

"We don't know," said Ashton, leaning onto his couch, a glass of Scotch in his hand. "The tunnel led all the way from the house at Saint Cross Road to the Wykeham Sports Club. That was outside our outer cordon. They must have had a vehicle stashed out there somewhere and drove off." Ashton's knuckles whitened around his glass. "Blended in with the traffic where we weren't even looking."

After a moment, he added, "Farid had leased that house for years. He must have been preparing that tunnel the whole time for just such an eventuality. As soon as the raid began, he ran for it." The knuckles whitened again. "Damn him." He finally took a drink from the glass.

"Any thoughts on where he might go?" Dublin asked from his chair.

Ashton shrugged. "That's a long list." He thought silently for a few seconds. "I don't think this raid was enough to foil whatever he was planning. Most likely, it just took a safehouse from him and deprived him of a few men. I don't believe he was expecting a reaction as quickly as it came. That's all."

"Not very encouraging," said Sather.

"Not at all," agreed Dublin, "especially considering all the ways you can get out of the country without scanning a passport."

Ashton nodded. "That's assuming he leaves at all. He may stay. He's coordinating a major operation." He blinked. "But he does have Steyn for the leg work on this end. Hmmm." He took another sip of Scotch and crossed his legs, his eyes staring into space as he thought.

"What about the recordings you have from his safehouse?" asked Dublin.

"The Arabic conversations are still being translated," Sather replied. "So far, what we've been able to translate seems to be as carefully worded as what was said in English. There might be the occasional slip-up, but I think we'd need one of your intel people to listen to it in order to catch it rather than one of us. They're also one-sided, since they're phone conversations, so I'm not sure how useful they'll be."

"At this point, anything is better than the nothing we have," Dublin admitted. "Let's just hope he doesn't go completely silent now."

Ashton came back to the present, turning his gaze to the other two men. "He won't, or at least Steyn won't. Like I said, there's still a major operation to arrange. Farid, on the other hand, may not go silent, but what we hear from him may change. We just have to figure out what he's saying and listen for it."

"And how long will it take us to learn that new piece of information?"

"There, my friends, lies the rub," said Ashton, getting up to refill his empty glass.

xxxxxxxxxx

06 June 2004

Hereford, England

Tristan stood in Ashton's massive personal training room, a combination gymnasium and martial arts hall. One half of the room was full of free weights, pull-up bars, not much else. Tristan noticed that part of the room had no mechanized equipment or any of the faddish equipment one would see on television infomercials.

The martial arts side of the room was less spartan. The entire floor, except for two meters all around, was covered by matting. The wall was covered with a variety of weaponry. Both a wooden punching dummy and a weighted punching bag were available for use nearby. None of that concerned him at all. What did worry him, though, was the fact that he was the smallest person in the room.

Tristan looked up at Ashton, Stanislav Orlov, Johnny Fairbanks, and a new man he had not met before. The new man was young, perhaps mid-twenties, but built like Orlov, perhaps even more muscular. Devon Sather, Alyssa, Vivia, Raven, Paula Thaler, and Asami stood off to the side, watching the group with smirks on their faces. Tristan gulped.

Ashton grinned at the boy. "Don't worry, Tristan. No one here is going to hurt you today. In fact," he added, pointing a thumb at the muscular man, "if anyone here should be concerned, it should be Sergeant Rawlins here."

The new man, who had been smiling casually, suddenly looked worried. "Sir?" he said, looking over at Ashton.

Ashton chuckled. "Don't fret too much, Sergeant," he said, waving a hand. "The only person who is going to throw a punch at you this morning is Johnny over there."

Rawlins' expression of concern faded considerably once he took a look at the size difference between himself and Johnny. "Ah, very well, sir."

"I would still recommend slipping on those two sets of padded armor I've placed against the wall for you, though." Ashton's voice was light, as if he might be joking.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"It would be a good idea." This time his voice was flatter, but there was still a hint of humor to it, as if he were almost daring Rawlins not to do it. Rawlins did not see Orlov and Johnny struggling to keep the grins off their own faces.

"Now, Tristan, Johnny told me that you saw a demonstration of _systema_ once before, is that right?"

Tristan nodded. Ashton turned to Rawlins.

"And, for those of you who have not met him, this is Sergeant Michael Rawlins. Sergeant Rawlins is a medical specialist newly assigned to NextGen's Delta company two weeks ago. In fact, you were on team three and took down one of the hostiles yourself and also administered aid to Sergeant Nichols before we evacuated him to hospital."

"Yes, sir," confirmed Rawlins as he tightened the straps on the padded armor, his eyes darting with concern to all the civilians in the room.

"Don't worry, Rawlins," said Ashton. "Everyone here, even these "children" have something special about them that clears them to hear these things."

"Yes, sir." Rawlins had noticed the particular way Ashton had said the word children. His expression, though he was trying to conceal it, showed he was intrigued.

"Well, the fact that you are so new to NextGen likely means you have not yet been introduced to the martial arts training we have here; it's called _systema._

"We've heard tell of it in the regiment, sir, but only bits and pieces. I only know it's something Russian and you have your own trainer. That's about all."

"I am now going to give you an initial introduction to _systema_ ," said Ashton with a grin. "For Tristan, for whose benefit we have called this little session, this will be a re-introduction." He motioned to Johnny to approach. "Johnny."

Johnny walked the few paces from where he stood by Orlov and stood in front of Rawlins.

"Hi," he said to Rawlins, a good-natured smile on his lips.

"Hello, little man," replied Rawlins. "I guess the brigadier wants you to hit me?"

"Yep."

"That's exactly what I want him to do, Sergeant," clarified Ashton. "And once you've recovered from it, I'd like for you to describe to the rest of us how it felt."

"Recovered, sir?" Rawlins looked up in disbelief. "But I must have at least fifty kilos in weight over him. And thirty-five centimeters in height, too."

"Oh, come now, Sergeant. You know enough about martial arts to know such things are irrelevant."

"Yes, sir, but still…"

"Whenever you two are ready," said Ashton, taking a step back.

Rawlins looked back at Johnny, taking a breath and letting it out. "Anytime, little John," he said.

Rawlins was expecting to see Johnny do something that would have let him prepare mentally for what happened, cock back his fist or take a step back so he could put his body weight into the punch, maybe even just move his eyes to where he was expecting to hit him. None of that happened. The boy was still just smiling pleasantly at him as if he was about to tell him a joke but then his hand moved almost as if he was just going to swat some dust off Rawlins' shirt. It was moving far too fast for that, though, and it was in the form of a fist. Rawlins bent over instantly, grasping his abdomen and stumbling backward.

Johnny took a step back himself, his part in the demonstration complete. Rawlins was still doubled over, his breathing coming in labored gasps. He looked up at Johnny, tears streaming from his eyes, an expression of utter disbelief on his face. With an extreme effort, he straightened himself. This did little to help the wheezing in his lungs.

"Take it easy, Mike," Johnny said softly, his playful air now replaced by one of concern. "Don't rush yourself."

Rawlins waved his hand dismissively as if the pain were nothing at all; the look on his face said otherwise. "I'll be…okay," he gasped, taking a few steps around the mat. "Just need…a moment…to catch my breath. That's all."

"There's no need for pride here, Sergeant," Ashton assured him. "We all know full well how that feels. Take your time. We have all day for this. You can even lie down if you think that will help."

"Thank you, sir. I will." Orlov and Ashton were at his side immediately to assist the young man. He grimaced as he was lowered to the floor. Once he was down, however, the relaxation to his abdominal muscles had a noticeable effect on him.

"Do you think you can talk?" asked Ashton.

"Yes, sir. I think so." Rawlins' voice was still raspy, but there was significant improvement.

"In as much detail as possible, please tell us everything you felt when Johnny hit you."

Rawlins took a breath, his diaphragm obviously objecting to it. "Well, sir. Usually, when a man hits you, you feel pain in just the area where you're hit. That's not what happened this time. It felt like an explosion in the spot where his fist landed with pain radiating outward in every direction from there. He hit me in the abdomen but I feel the reverberations all the way up in my chest and down into my groin. It's like a fire that leaves its embers to slowly die wherever you still feel the vibrations from the impact."

Rawlins stopped talking for a moment and grinned. "He looked so casual when he did it. Like he was just doing a high five or something."

Johnny held out his left hand, palm up, and brought his right fist down like a hammer, slapping it through the palm.

"Yeah, just like that. Like it wasn't even a punch at all. Like it was a hammer slamming through me rather than a fist just punching me."

"Do you want to try standing up now, Sergeant?" asked Ashton.

"Yes, sir."

Orlov and Ashton helped him. Rawlins appeared much better now. He still winced a bit, but his balance had improved.

"Without that armor," said Ashton, "there is a high likelihood Johnny could have inflicted severe injury to you. It might have even been a lethal blow." Ashton pointed at Orlov. "If a _systema_ master like Stas had done it, well, we'd be looking for a new medic in team three."

While Rawlins shuddered, Ashton turned to Tristan. "That's what you saw in London last month." Grinning, he added, "Now, Stas and Johnny are going to teach it to you."

"And what will I be doing, sir?" asked Rawlins.

"Well, in addition to keeping up with your team responsibilities and learning _systema_ yourself, you are also going to be Tristan's sparring partner."

"His?" Rawlings was only able to keep most of the incredulous tone out of his voice. "Sorry, sir."

Ashton grinned. "Don't worry, Sergeant. You can't hurt him. By being brought into this little fold, you are also being entrusted with a secret. One everyone in this room knows except for you."

"Sir?"

"You are going to be training an Immortal."

"A what?"

Grinning again, Ashton repeated, "An Immortal, my good man." At Rawlins' disbelieving expression, he chuckled. "Don't look so surprised. There are six of them in this room. In fact, a seventh one is approaching now."

"A seventh?" asked Rawlins. "Who?"

"That," answered Vivia, "would be your regimental sergeant major, Darren Dublin."

Just as she said his name, Dublin crossed the threshold into the training hall. Rawlins stared blankly, his jaw slack. Dublin just smiled as he sat on a chair to unlace his boots.

"I know I have that effect on the lasses, Rawlins, but what has your tongue?"

"Sergeant Major, this lady just said you were an Immortal."

Vivia laughed. "My name is Vivia, Sergeant Rawlins."

"Vivia, sorry."

Dublin chuckled. "Well, I've never known Vivia to lie."

Rawlins' jaw dropped again. "What? You can tell when each other are near?"

"Yes," replied Vivia.

"So you're an Immortal, too?"

"Yes," Vivia said again, grinning.

"And you can tell who it is?"

"No, it seems only Viv can do that."

Rawlins' gaze turned to Johnny. "You, too?"

"Yep." Johnny held out his hand. "Don't worry. I won't hit you again. Just shake."

Rawlins slowly reached out and took Johnny's hand. "So who else in here is immortal?"

There was chuckling around the room as each of the other Immortals smiled and raised a hand in the air. Rawlins' eyes fixated on his commander.

"You, too, sir?"

"That is correct, Sergeant."

"So what is this about I can't hurt this boy?" asked Rawlins.

Tristan said sternly, "My name is Tristan."

"I'm sorry, Tristan. I'm just overwhelmed. Please forgive me."

Tristan smiled at the giant man. "It's okay. I understand."

"What I'm saying, Sergeant, is anything you do to him in inconsequential. Come here." Ashton motioned Rawlins forward. The sergeant approached. The rest of the room knew what was coming and shared a smirk.

"Enjoy this, Sergeant, because this is the only time you will ever hear it. Sadly, you will never be able to tell your teammates what you are about to see."

"Sir?"

Ashton stood up straight, hands at his sides. "Punch me in the nose. Hard. Break it. Now."

"Sir?" Rawlins repeated.

"Now, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir." The punch rocked Ashton's head back. There was an audible crunching sound heard throughout the room. Asami turned her head into Vivia's shoulder, not wanting to see the result. Ashton slowly brought his head level again, massaging his neck at the same time. His nose was nearly flat. Blood was flowing freely from both nostrils and tears streamed from his eyes. Black bruises were already forming around his eyes. Without a word, he motioned for a cloth to clean his face. Johnny brought it to him.

"Okay, Sergeant," Ashton said, his voice distorted by the blood in his sinuses. "Check it. Broken, yes?"

Rawlins came forward again, horror on his face. He reached out and tenderly touched the nose several times. Ashton winced each time.

"Yes, sir. Definitely badly broken. We should get you to hospital."

Ashton shook his head. Covering his nose with the cloth, he began to manipulate it.

"What's he doing?" asked Rawlins.

"He's resetting his nose," answered Johnny. "Hurts like hell, but it's simple to do. Has to be done quickly, though, since the nose is made of cartilage. Since you took your time checking him, he actually had to break it again."

"Oh, God," moaned Rawlins.

Ashton took a deep breath through his nostrils. "Ah, much better. Now I just need to wash my face." Looking down at his clothes, he added, "and probably the rest of me."

He looked back up at Rawlins. "Don't worry yourself, Rawlins. All of that had a point. Immortals heal very quickly. While you're sparring with Tristan over there then, if you happen to land a blow and it blackens his eye, don't be concerned. He'll be good to go in a minute or two. I'm not saying to abuse him, just don't pull your punches. I'm going to tell him to do the same. In fact, I want to get him up to the point that you need to wear this armor again while you're sparring with him. Maybe even to the point that it's too dangerous for you to spar with him at all and he needs to train with one of us."

Rawlins nodded. "I think I'm clear on that now, sir. My head is still swimming from it all, but I'll deal with it."

Ashton smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder. "Good, then let's get started." He gestured to the group off to the side. "If any of you would care to join us, now is the time." He nodded to Orlov.

"Stas, it's your class."

xxxxxxxxxx

"That was incredible," gushed Raven. "I never thought I could do martial arts with cerebral palsy. Now I think this _systema_ thing might be able to actually help me walk better without the braces. I'm so glad I accepted your invitation."

Ashton smiled. "It was my pleasure. You're welcome to keep coming back. Tristan's regular training time and your work schedule won't conflict with each other. If it helps him and you, so much the better."

"Thank you so much. I will."

Orlov walked up to Ashton as Raven left, humming to herself. Ashton looked back at the Ukrainian and grinned. Orlov returned it.

"I do like how excited they get with the basics," Orlov stated. "Just the simple things like how to move and breathe; how to think and hold your body. It gets so much energy out of new students, opens their minds."

Ashton chuckled. "And then it later becomes like true wisdom; realizing you know nothing."

"But does life ever really change from that, David?" Vivia asked coyly as she passed him, Asami at her side.

"Not really," he replied.

"I thought you'd say that. You're so predictable." Turning to Asami as they sat on one of the living room couches, she asked, "How do you stand a man whose every word you know before he says it?" Her voice dripped with enough playful sarcasm to match her smile.

Asami's giggle lasted several seconds. "He still has a lot of surprises."

"With that, I shall leave," said Orlov.

"Are they the kind you can talk about now or do we need to go to another room?" asked Vivia.

"Viv," warned Ashton.

Vivia looked up as if she had forgotten Ashton were in the room.

" _Kelisimdi umıtpañız, qımbattım,"_ he said in Kazakh. (Remember the agreement, my dear.)

 __Vivia rolled her eyes, as if being reminded not to attend Catholic mass in the nude. She smiled anyway before replying, " _Oy, siz köñildi emessiz. Jaqsı."_ (Oh, you're no fun. Okay.)

Asami looked at Vivia, confused. "Nevermind, dear," said Vivia. "Just a game he and I play to make sure we both behave."

"I thought English was hard to learn," Asami admitted. "Whatever that was sounded completely unpronounceable."

Vivia's laugh was practically musical. "You should hear him when he starts to speak in Egyptian. I don't mean Arabic. I mean the old stuff, true ancient Egyptian. That stuff is unpronounceable."

Ashton grinned. "No more so than your Scythian dialect was when I first heard it."

Asami looked over at Ashton. "How did that sound?"

"Like someone took Persian, Russian, and some Xhosa and threw it in a blender on high. It was a mess. I had passed through those regions several times and thought I knew the languages and still couldn't understand her at first."

Vivia grinned at him. "He's exaggerating a little bit. He had to play it up for his Greek buddies at the time so they wouldn't think he had anything to do with the Persian invaders."

"Persians?" asked Asami.

"Oh, David didn't tell you what his name was back when he and I first met, at least among the Greeks?"

"No," said Asami.

"Viv," said Ashton in that tone again.

"Can it really hurt, David?"

Ashton sighed and walked over to a chair. Taking a seat, he said, "I suppose not. Go ahead."

"Thank you." Vivia turned back to Asami's wide eyes. "Your boyfriend had two names at the time. To the soldiers in the guerrilla band he was leading against the Persians, he was Rhadamanthus; I'll let him tell you the other name himself sometime. In fact, no, I won't. It was Themistocles. That has no bearing on my story. It's Rhadamanthus that you need to hear about."

xxxxxxxxxx

May 479 BCE

Near Thebes, Greece

The warmth of a summer sun soothed her skin and the scent of saltwater and olives filled her nose. She opened her eyes, the Grecian sun assaulting her blue eyes. There was a certain texture to the air that tainted its odor, a humidity born of the sweat of other human beings. Vivia shuddered and attempted to brush away the tresses stuck to her forehead, only to find her hands tied. _Damn you, Mardonius, you son of a bitch_ , she thought the instant her memories flooded back to her. The ambush, the fight... and Mardonius fled, abandoning her and her men, allowing them to be captured by the Greeks. Cursing again, the woman tried to take stock of her surroundings, although she was quite sure of where she was. It was the last place a woman would want to be, especially nearly five hundred years before the birth of Christ: the enemy camp.

 _All right, all right_ , she told herself, taking a deep breath of the stagnant air to calm herself, _You'll live through this. It very likely won't be pretty, or pleasant, but you'll live - you've done it before._ There was a certain sardonic humor to her thoughts. _I am a member of the royal house of Xerxes, and known to be close to him; surely they will want to sell me back for a ransom of their own soldiers. Even if they don't..._ For all the damage they could do to her physical body, they very likely could not kill her. Beheading was simply not a convenient way to dispose of prisoners.

 _However, it doesn't look like my men will be so lucky._ She could see the pavilion set up before the horde of prisoners, where several would likely be executed as an example before the others were traded. Several were lined up already, bound hand and foot. They were all young Persian men that Vivia recognized, only one out of the half-dozen older than her body appeared. For an instant, her face contorted before she regained control of herself. Dareh was up there, the miller's son; she had known his father before she was Artemisia. The youngest boy of the captain of the guard in Halicarnissus was there too; Mehrdad was his name. He had just reached sixteen years, and this was his first real taste of warfare. _What have I done? Getting these children into this?  
_  
A man in the dress of a general ascended the steps to the pavilion, much to the applause of the Greeks. Vivia raised her bound hands above her eyes to shade them, hoping to get a better look. It appeared to her that his hair was blond, but that just didn't seem right. Greeks weren't blond - in fact, it was a very rare thing in most of the world.

"Just look'et that, wench. You'll be a lucky bitch if you get off that easy."

Vivia ignored the raucous laughter of the Greek soldiers around her - obviously her guard - as well as the sharp kick to her hip, keeping her gaze on the blond man on the pavilion. He had a sword in hand and was speaking now, but the woman could not understand the language. She understood what was going on, however, and shuddered violently as the blade came down on the back of young Dareh's neck. The sound of the man's head landing on the wooden deck would haunt her for centuries to come.

She nearly convulsed again as she realized what this might mean for her own safety.

"Oh no," the soldier continued, finally drawing Viv's attention. "Rhadamanthus wants you for himself." Here the soldier chuckled lewdly, leering at her bruised and sweaty form. "Not that I blame him, you're certainly one tasty bit of steam."

For a moment, Vivia glared at the lascivious guard, then turned back to the pavilion as another of her soldiers lost his head. _Oh, Gods above. Asha was such a nice young man, and he was supposed to marry that sweet little Sadira this spring..._ Suddenly, she laughed bitterly in her mind. _Rhadamanthus... A judge of Hades. Now I see why they call him that._

A crowd of men was now gathering around the Persian woman. They talked with her guard, laughing salaciously and gesturing to Vivia. It bothered her that she did not understand their dialect of Greek - she understood very little of the language to begin with - but she quickly got the gist of the discussion. They were discussing her, and their intentions were less than desirable. One man, a stern-faced man a few years older than the mean age, kept stepping closer to her, a seemingly unblinking gaze fixed on her.

A chill ran down the woman's spine, and she tried to scoot back. Unfortunately, there was only so far she could go, bound, guarded, and stuck in the crowd as she was. She had no means of escape when the man grabbed the shoulder of her tunic, lifting her slightly and bringing his face down close to hers. He spoke to her in Greek, but she understood his tone, as well as the hand that tried to clutch her breast. Instantly, Vivia reacted, lashing out with her foot. The strike landed just above his knee, sending him stumbling, but drew the interest of the other soldiers. Within moments, the woman found herself fending off the "advances" of several, all as the nauseating harmonics of another Immortal echoed in her head.

It all ended in an instant - almost before Vivia realized it - as one of the soldiers was hauled off her. The others fell back quickly as their comrade was spun around, a sword suddenly jutting through his abdomen as he was forced to face the blond commander.

"I said," each Greek word was slow and accentuated, enough so that even the Persians could understand them, "that the woman was, under NO circumstances, to be touched." He let the dying soldier sink to the ground, pulling his sword from the man's stomach. "I do not tolerate such disobedience in my army."

Despite years of being a battle-hardened warrior, Vivia recoiled as the fallen man twitched and moaned in his death throes. The other soldiers, too, stepped back, leaving a clear path between their commander and the prisoner. Rhadamanthus bent swiftly, callously cleaning his blade on the wounded Greek's tunic before returning it to his sheath in a smooth, decisive motion.

Vivia swallowed painfully, trying to suppress her fear as she met the man's eyes as he straightened. Tinted a cold, bright blue, they showed no human compassion, only a lustful light as they appraised her. _This is the Immortal I felt,_ she knew instantly. Dread clutched at her heart, draining any last optimism it may have contained. _Surely he means to take my head... Gods, I hope he means to do only that..._

Hand still on the hilt of his sword, Rhadamanthus stepped over his fallen subordinate, who still writhed in agony on the ground, closing the gap between general and prisoner in one long stride. Despite a growing hopelessness tugging at her soul, Vivia faced the man's glare levelly, contempt and malice evident in her features. "As any good general knows," the Greek continued his speech, now addressing no one in particular. "You save such a prize as this for a higher purpose than servicing the common soldiers."

Cursing him in her native tongue, she spat at his feet. The commander watched her passively, simply moving his sandal out of the way, but one of the soldiers surged forward to attempt to reprimand her. Rhadamanthus caught him before he reached her, turning his frigid gaze to his follower for just an instant. "Unless you wish to meet an end similar to your friend there, I would recommend you remember your orders and leave her to me.

"A Scyth, eh?" he continued, returning to the woman. He spoke to her in a dialect of her native Scythian language. "I don't believe I've ever had the opportunity to enjoy one of your kind before. Taming an Amazon - this could be most entertaining."

Although she did not understand the reference to Amazons, Vivia bristled at the comment. "Release my bonds and face me like a man," Vivia snapped, cursing him again, "and we shall see who tames who."

"Ah, yes, the standard of honor of our kind," the man scoffed in return. "I've recently come to find that quite unnecessary. If you understood the local mythology, by the way, you would know I had actually paid you quite the compliment. In any event, you are more valuable to me alive at this point. I'd hate to have to kill you just yet."

Unsure how to respond, Vivia met his eyes with her own hate-filled glare. She held it, unwavering, and waited for him to speak again. _I would rather be dead that his love-slave,_ she kept telling herself, but the prospect of keeping her head attached to her shoulders still seemed to be an overwhelming temptation.

Several moments passed in silence, save for the shuffling of nearby soldiers and the continued pains from the man dying on the ground only a step away from his commander's feet. Finally, Rhadamanthus raised an eyebrow, now watching his prisoner with a different light. "I see words on your lips, woman. Speak them."

"Coward," she whispered, her voice clear despite its low dynamic.

For a moment, the whispering of the onlookers grew louder, but the blond man said nothing. The edge of his lip twitched, curling into a smirk, and finally, after the initial ruckus had died down, he responded in Greek. "I see your surplus courage is balanced by a deficit of sense. Pity."

It was simple enough that Vivia could understand what he said. He repeated it in Scythian for her benefit. A thousand not-so-smart remarks ran through her mind, but she said nothing, simply continuing to face him defiantly. Even in her short two hundred years, she was well aware her stubborn patience could outlast most others. After several moments of quiet confrontation, Rhadamanthus turned to watch a messenger - a lanky and out-of-proportion young man - obviously a teenager - weave his way towards the soldiers towards him. He motioned for the masses to part and allow the boy through.

"What is it, Cenon?"

The young man shook his head, waiting until he came close to speak. A short, whispered conference ensued before Rhadamanthus nodded and the messenger turned to push his way back through the crowds. He then addressed the captive women before him again.

"Well, it looks like your soldiers are in luck. Your dear Xerxes has agreed to exchange some of our captured men for your boys here."

For an instant, a fleeting light of hope reached Vivia's heart, but it quickly died as she realized her particular circumstance.

"And I suppose that doesn't mean me."

"Ah, such is the price of glory."

Somewhere in the distance, someone began shouting orders in Greek. Vivia could hear the movement in masses of men around her. It took all she had to resist the urge to turn and watch them, focusing on keeping her face emotionless. They reached out to touch her shoulders as they passed; she could hear them call to her in hope and in grief. Anger once again rising within her, she faced the general coldly.

"Gods damn you, you monster! Just face me like a man and let us end this!"

Rhadamanthus, however, had let his eyes rise to survey the soldiers. He did not seem to notice the woman's anger or curses.

"Your soldiers care for you a great deal."

There was a certain faraway tone to his voice, almost like a mixture of great respect and unequaled jealousy.

The ice had not left Vivia's words. "You have taken away the only commander they have known."

The Greek chuckled, shaking his head almost fondly. "Such fire would be enviable in a man. Women like you are truly hard to find."

He turned, pulling aside a guard to speak with him. After a moment, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Vivia alone with the remnants of her escort. The soldier to whom Rhadamanthus had spoken stepped forward, bending down to cut her bonds. He spoke slowly so she would understand. "The general has ordered that you will go with them."

Stunned into silence, she rose, rubbing her hands as the circulation painfully returned. She glanced at the guard once more; he nodded and gestured for her to go.

xxxxxxxxxx

Asami stared from Ashton to Vivia in wonderment. "That's how the two of you met?"

With a mischievous grin, Vivia confirmed, "Yes, it is."

"And you were friends after that?"

"Not really friends," said Vivia. "We just weren't trying to kill each other. When we bumped into each other over the next several centuries, we actually started to talk and realized we had more in common than different. Know what I mean?"

Asami nodded. "Sometimes I get jealous of the two of you."

"Why?" asked Vivia, putting a hand on her knee.

"As close as David and I seem to be, there is no way I can compete with the two of you having known each other for two thousand years. You speak to each other in obscure languages and, like you said, play little games with each other. You call each other cute names and exchange little kisses and hugs like long lost lovers. He touches you almost as much as he does me."

Asami looked across at Ashton. There were tears in her eyes. "So what am I to you? Compared to her? I know you love me but do you love her more?"

"He doesn't need to answer that, Asami, because I already know."

"Why? Why, Vivia?"

"I know he loves me and I love him, but it's about not who he loves more. It's about who stays and who goes."

"What do you mean?" Asami asked her, tears in her eyes.

"I'm the one that comes to visit and leaves at night. You're the one he wants to keep close to him all the time."

Asami looked up again. Ashton nodded. Asami smiled. She turned her eyes to Vivia. "Thank you. You know I love you, too, Vivia, don't you?"

"Of course, I know that. And it's reciprocal. Why else would I put up with you and those two beautiful brats of yours?"

"Thank you, Vivia. I love you so much." Tears were streaming down Asami's cheeks.

"Yes, Vivia. Thank you," said Ashton, standing from his chair and walking from his chair. He made a slight gesture, his eyes saying more than anything. The ladies scooted down so he could sit by Asami's other side. He took a hand from each of them in his. They sat silently for a long time.

xxxxxxxxxx

07 June 2004

Kunar Province, Afghanistan

Near Asadabad

Zarang Mirza squatted in his one room hut, resting from his long labors in the valley below. There was very little arable land in the Kunar Province of Afghanistan, the vast majority of it being found in coveted strips in the valleys. Zarang's daily routine consisted primarily of walking from his hut, built into the side of one of the province's high mountains, down into the valley, working in the fields until an hour before dark, and then walking back home. Life for his wife, Ariana, was not any easier as she took care of all of the many tasks back at the hut. His three sons, all grown with their own families, would meet in the fields and help.

As with most days in Zarang's life, it had been filled with back breaking work, a few moments of levity, some breaks for prayer, and not much else. This day, though, was proving to be something a little bit different. First, Zarang had decided to give himself a break. The rice crop was coming along well. He came home two hours early and surprised Ariana with some pleasant, simple company as a gift and a break of her own.

Unlike the other mud huts in the village, the Mirza's was very small. The others in the village contained one or more extended families, at times. The Mirza's hut, at the time when they had children living there, barely had enough room for them all. Now it was spacious enough for them both and perhaps a visitor or two. The floor was covered with blankets and had pillows against the walls. There was no electricity. The only lighting at night came from a small oil lantern. Ariana's cooking utensils were stowed in one corner; Zarang's personal belongings were under a pillow in one corner and Ariana's were under a pillow in the opposite corner. Two prayer rugs were rolled up and stacked against the wall near where they sat. Zarang's hand cart and farm tools sat near the door outside. Such was the extent of their worldly possessions.

It was the strange voice outside that drew his attention. At first, Zarang paid it no mind. People passed through the tiny village all the time. This voice seemed to stay, though. Zarang stood, telling his wife he needed to urinate, and left the hut. Stepping outside, he glanced in the direction of the voice. He caught only the profile of the speaker. He did not stop walking. The profile was enough to jar a memory in his mind. He kept walking toward the treeline.

There were no toilets in the village. Zarang squatted down and lifted his garments, letting nature take its course. All the while, his thoughts raced. Could he be sure? Was that truly Rafa Shinwari? Standing again, he turned and walked back toward his home. Coming from this direction, he had a better view of the speaker. There was no doubt. It was Shinwari. He didn't know who the other men were. Zarang kept his eyes straight ahead as if he were just another old man on his way back from a piss.

Ariana awaited him patiently. Zarang smiled at her as he resumed his squatting position next to her. Their conversation resumed as if it had never broken. All the while, Zarang thought about the tiny radio transceiver he had hidden away in his satchel. Tomorrow, he would take it with him. He had to find a concealed place to use it. He had to report his sighting of Rafa Shinwari quickly.

Zarang and his wife settled down for bed soon after their evening prayers. Thoughts of the radio report still swarmed through Zarang's mind. The salary he received from the Westerners was small by western standards, but significant enough for an Afghan. Zarang closed his eyes, remembering the blond Englishman who had met with him two years ago. The Englishman asked simply to be notified if Zarang ever saw one of a dozen men whose names and faces Zarang had to memorize.

In exchange for this passive observation, Zarang would receive one hundred American dollars per month, payable either in dollars, pounds, or local currency. There would be an additional $1,000 if he reported one of the dozen men and that person was positively identified later. Considering the per capita income of the country was $410 per year, this monthly income was quite a boon for Zarang. He just had to be very careful how he spent it. There could be no obvious shows of wealth. Thus far, he had been very cautious; a few new farm tools and one new wheel on his cart. Under his pillow, though, were two passports for himself and Arianna. As soon as possible, he would get the two of them out of Afghanistan and to a safer place in the world.


	21. Prodigal Son

"Well father said, "Eldest son, kill the fatted calf,  
Call the family round  
Kill that calf and call the family round  
My son was lost but now he is found"

"Prodigal Son" - The Rolling Stones

08 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Ashton looked up from his coffee with a smile. "Paula, Raven, how nice to see you at breakfast for a change. To what do we owe the honor?"

Raven yawned as she took a seat at the table. "Paula thought we were being slugs by sleeping in so much and should actually take part in things a bit more. You know, rather than just take up a bed and eat your food all the time?"

Ashton smirked. "That's not really a problem, in your case, since you have your own apartment now."

Raven started to smile, but it was interrupted by another yawn. When she finished, she replied, "Yeah, but I was visiting her last night and fell asleep." She suddenly looked concerned. "Am I still welcome?"

"Of course. You're still Johnny and Alyssa's friend, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah," she answered.

"Then you're welcome here." He fixed his gaze on Paula. "And you, _Fraulein Thaler_ , I hear that you have been introducing Tristan to the field of economics." Ashton grinned. "I'm not sure how he fits it into his day with Johnny running him to death in the morning, prowling around the estate looking at all the flora, seemingly devouring every book in my library, and working out with Stas in the afternoon. He might not like it when I add more training to that schedule."

"What?" said Tristan, looking up from his omelette and toast.

"That's right, young man. Next week, you start a new workout regimen and a tutor or two."

"What kind?"

"First, let's allow Mrs. Thaler to answer my question."

Terry came to the table before Paula could say a word. "Good morning, ladies. What would the two of you like for breakfast?" They gave him their orders and he left with a smile and a bow.

"Does he cook every meal for you?" asked Raven.

"Oh, no," answered Ashton. "Just breakfast and the occasional dinner. It's about the only cooking he gets to do. He spends the rest of his time supervising the staff cooks as they prepare meals for everyone else on the grounds. He also prepares our food for _Shabbat_ so we don't have to concern ourselves with that. Good man. He says doing this makes him feel like an actual chef while the rest of the job just makes him feel like a whipcracker." With a smile, he added, "But he's damn good at both of those. Anyway, back to you, Mrs. Thaler."

"After all these weeks, please call me Paula."

"As you wish."

"As far as what I'm teaching Tristan, so far it's just a few basic microeconomic principles: supply and demand, markets and individual maximizing behavior, the consumer, the producer, market structure, things like that."

"You've covered that much material in so little time?" Ashton glanced at Tristan. "That's astonishing."

"He's a superb student," said Paula. "I sometimes teach classes at the London School of Business and Finance and I wish I had students who could grasp the concepts as easily as he does."

Tristan blushed and took a bite of his toast. Alyssa grinned at him and mussed his already messy hair.

"Sounds like perhaps I should get him an economics tutor, then," Ashton mused.

This time Tristan spoke up. "No, I need to understand the math first. Could I have a math tutor?"

There were smiles around the table. Ashton chuckled. "How often do you hear a young boy actually ask for a maths tutor?" To Tristan, he said, "That's not a problem. What level?"

"Uhm…?"

Paula stepped in. "Eventually, he'll need calculus - of course, you know that being an economist yourself - but let's start him off a little lower than that. What was that last maths class you had?"

"Maths? With an S?"

Johnny smirked. "That's just how we say it here. Same thing."

Tristan nodded. He took a forkful of omelette as he thought. "I haven't been in school since 1972. It's been a long time. I probably should start from there and work up. Can I get someone who can start at that level and progress with me as I'm able?"

"Grade six math up through calculus," pondered Ashton. "That's a tall order, but I'm sure it can be done. Worst case, I think we can find a grade six through algebra tutor and then someone who can take you beyond that."

Tristan finished his orange juice and reached for the pitcher. "That sounds good to me."

"Pick one more subject; one more tutor."

Tristan placed the pitcher back on the table and sipped his juice. He closed his eyes, taking a breath. When he opened them, he laughed.

"Could I have two, sort of?"

"What do you mean?" Ashton queried. He turned to face Tristan better while also buttering a piece of toast, his forearm resting casually on the table.

"I already know how to type and use a computer. I need to learn how to write better, maybe even speak better, too. But I mean both ways. Handwriting and academic writing or whatever you call it. Could I get a handwriting tutor and someone to teach me how to write a proper paper? After that, maybe I could get a communications tutor?"

Ashton smiled, then laughed. "My God, we have a boy here who is planning ahead."

Johnny laughed along with them. "You won't need a tutor to learn how to give a speech. David is constantly grilling his officers on the same thing. He could just do the same thing to you."

"Oh, God," said Sather, sitting at his usual place at the other end of the table. "Don't turn the kid into an officer. Anything but that. Why ruin such potential?"

Sather saw a spinning flash across the table. Reflexively, his hand came up, knocking something aside. When he looked down at the object as it clattered to the floor, he saw the broad end of a butter knife spinning on the hardwood at the far side of the room, traces of butter still visible on the side. Sather suppressed a gulp. Even though the blade was dull, it was still heading for his throat, maybe his chin or chest. It would have left a bruise, possibly, or worse. He looked back at Ashton. The Minoan was still directing his gaze at Tristan, his expression unchanged. He had flung the butter knife with a flick of his wrist and his peripheral vision only. Very few at the table had even noticed it. Sather smiled.

 _You bastard. Nice to see the old banter is back._

Valentin Dumitrescu came through the front door. He did not knock first. He was one of the few of Ashton's staff who could do so. Close behind him was Catherine Fleming, Ashton's chief of security. Neither seemed alarmed, though the hour of their arrival, so soon after physical training, had Ashton's attention. They both appeared as if they had dressed hurriedly. Val was still unshaven.

Ashton turned in his chair to face the new arrivals as they entered the dining room. He set his toast down on his plate and stood to greet them.

"Hello, Val, Catherine, what's the problem?"

"It's not a big problem, sir, at least…" started Val.

"At least, we don't think it is. Not yet," finished Fleming.

"What is it?" asked Ashton.

Fleming continued, "The guards at the front gate are holding a man, an American, who claims to be an associate of Mr. Sather's. The guards didn't have contact information for Mr. Sather so the man said to call you. They called Val and me, just to be safe."

Ashton turned to Sather. "Are you expecting anyone?"

Sather shook his head, bewilderment on his face. "No, no one at all. Did he give a name?"

Val nodded. "The guards took his wallet. He had an American passport under the name," Val referred to his notes, "John Patrick Connelly."

"Jack?" exclaimed Tristan, bursting from his seat. "Jack's at the gate?"

"You know him?" asked Sather.

Tristan nodded fervently. "He's my Watcher. I haven't seen him since the thing at the park."

"Where the hell has he been all this time?" Sather wondered.

"Let's get him over here and ask him," replied Ashton. Turning to Val and Fleming, he said, "Tell the guards I authorize him to come into the base. Val, would you pick him up, please? After you've had a chance to shower and shave, of course."

"Yes, sir."

Fleming went to the living room to call the front gate while Val went out the front door. Ashton returned to the table and sat.

"We may as well finish our meals and have coffee or tea standing by. I expect we're about to hear an interesting story in about half an hour."

xxxxxxxxxx

Val opened the front door and entered the house again. Turning back, he smiled and gestured toward the man behind him.

"Right this way, Mr. Connelly."

"Thank you," replied Jack, crossing the threshold, his eyes widening again as he took in the magnificence, at least compared to his humble apartment in the States, of the house's interior.

"The others are waiting for you in the dining room, sir. By any chance, are you hungry?"

"I am actually," Jack admitted.

"We have an excellent chef here named Terry. He has been awaiting your arrival, just in case."

Jack was flabbergasted. "There was no need to go out of your way like that, not for me."

Val smiled. "Mr. Ashton believes in taking care of his guests."

"That's right, Mr. Connelly," said a new voice. "I also expect you to take full advantage of every hospitality. Welcome."

Jack turned his head to face the source of the new voice and found himself opposite David Ashton. The Minoan was smiling at him, a hand outstretched. Despite knowing full well he was going to Ashton's house, Jack was so surprised at seeing the Immortal in the flesh, he stood stock still for a moment. Suddenly realizing his discourtesy, he took Ashton's hand.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ashton. I never expected to meet you. This whole morning has come as a surprise to me."

"And for us, as well," Ashton admitted.

"Oof," gasped Jack, as something slammed into him. Looking down, he saw the top of Tristan's brown-haired head. The boy's arms were wrapped around him. He grinned and patted the boy's back. "It's good to see you again, Tristan."

Tristan stepped back and looked up at Jack, his face beaming. "It's wonderful to see you, too, Jack. How did you find us?"

"Let's let Jack order some breakfast, sit and have coffee, and tell us all that story," suggested Ashton.

Upon hearing "tell us all," Jack finally noticed the other people in the room. Some he recognized from the Watcher chronicles: Darren Dublin; Jonathan Fairbanks; Alyssa Cordeiro; Vivia Wales; the area director, Devon Sather; others he did not know.

"Excuse me, sir."

Jack turned to see a chef standing two meters away. The man wore a pleasant, patient smile.

"I am Terry," he said. "What would you desire for breakfast? I can prepare whatever you like and in whatever quantity." He thought for a moment and then clarified, "With the exception of pork products or shellfish."

Jack salivated at the mere thought of food. After some brief consideration, he replied, "Let's keep it relatively simple. May I have a three-egg omelette with spinach, feta cheese, and sauteed mushrooms, wheat toast, sliced tomatoes, and a side of butter and jam, please?"

With another smile, the chef responded, "Absolutely, sir. You will have that momentarily. You will find coffee, tea, and juices already on the table."

"Thank you, Terry."

 _Wow! I've never ordered breakfast from a personal chef before. This is nice._

Jack turned back to face the room. The others were still standing, watching him. He let out a gasp and smiled.

"Please forgive me for my overexcitement. I'm a new Watcher, pretty much fresh out of the Academy, and being in this room is like a who's who out of the Watcher-Immortal War lecture series."

There were a few wry grins around the room from that comment.

"We won't hold that against you, Connelly," barked Sather from the back of the room. "We'd probably be the same in your shoes."

Ashton coughed lightly. "Yes, well, not the kind of topic I'd exactly like to recount, per se. I would, however, like to hear the answer to Tristan's question. Come on over here and sit down, Jack, and tell us about it." Ashton moved to the head of the table, motioning to the seat at his right.

"Thank you, sir," said Jack, taking the chair. A grinning Tristan slid into the seat next to him. Jack couldn't resist putting an arm around the boy's shoulders for a moment like they were two old friends. Jack opened his mouth to speak but noticed Ashton hold up a hand, a sudden smirk on his face.

"I just had a thought," said the Minoan. "A few weeks ago, I heard Tristan's version of how he came through Florida and eventually to England. That included his initial run-in with you. I just had the idea of hearing that whole story from your perspective. Would you mind?"

Jack closed his mouth and looked down the table. "Does everyone have time for that?" he asked, looking back at Ashton.

"Val? Is there anything pressing on the schedule for this morning?"

Val, who was still standing behind Ashton, flipped through his notes. "Another test of the XM-87 rifle at 09:00 at range seventeen, a demonstration of the SV-11 Scout Vehicle at 10:00 on range four; and a briefing on the results of last week's Operation Climbing Spider at 11:00."

"Inform Colonel Harrington I will not be at the demonstrations for the XM-87 and the SV-11. I will read the staff reports when they are published. I will be at the briefing, however. And if you want to hear this, Val, you'd better hurry."

"Yes, sir."

Turning back to Jack, Ashton checked his watch and smiled. "There you go, Jack. It is now 08:15. You have two and a half hours then I must get ready to leave. Is that enough time for your story?"

"Oh, yes, sir, it should be, I think, provided I don't get too long-winded and your chef's cooking doesn't put me to sleep."

Laughter travelled around the table, Ashton chuckling, as well. "No guarantees. Terry's meals are more than satisfying, to say the least."

Jack looked up and down the table again. He cocked a thumb down its length. "So, everyone here…?"

Ashton nodded at his unfinished question. "Yes, everyone here is either an Immortal, a Watcher, or knows about the two. You can speak freely here. That goes for Val when he gets back, as well."

"If you choose to stick around here for any length of time, by the way, there are three people not present, two of whom are not fully aware of immortality yet. The first absentee is my girlfriend, Asami Ukita, and the other two are Marc and Natalya, my adopted children. Being a Watcher, I presume you're already aware of them. Asami decided to take them out for a few hours. She thought it would give us a little more freedom to talk openly."

Jack nodded at this. "I was aware of them, yes. Amidst this crowd, I'll admit, I didn't notice their absence. I apologize."

Ashton shook his head. "No need. Proceed with your story whenever you're ready. Ah, Val is back. Just in time."

"Yes, sir," stated Val as he took a seat at the table. "Colonel Harrington said he will take any necessary notes and will inform the staff not to procrastinate in publishing their reports on the tests."

"Perfect. Thank you, Val." Turning his eyes to Jack again, he said, "The floor is yours, Jack."

"When I think about it, everything seems to be linked to how I ended up in the Watchers in the first place so I guess I'll start there and then work my way back up to present day. I was an infantryman in the U.S. Army. I had been a paratrooper for most of my career and had spent the first several years in light infantry units. Now I found myself at Fort Stewart, Georgia in a mechanized infantry division. Let's just say that going from light infantry operations to working with Bradley Fighting Vehicles and M1 Abrams tanks was quite an adjustment for me.

xxxxxxxxxx

John Patrick "Jack" Connelly was exactly what everyone expected him to be. The son of an Army officer, his intent from the beginning was to join the military as an enlisted man, serve for one term, and become a commissioned officer. First, he had to make his way through the DOD (Department of Defense) educational system. Throughout his middle and high school years, which involved a great deal of travel since he had to uproot every few years due to his father's frequent transfers, Jack excelled both academically and athletically. While in Italy, he found he had a talent for languages and had become quite proficient in the local dialect during his family's time there. He renewed this skill in languages by becoming nearly fluent in Spanish and German during his high school years. He also discovered in middle school he had a particular interest in history and continued to pursue this topic in high school. In sports, Jack always performed well on the varsity cross country and track-and-field competitions.

Jack enlisted in the Army while still in high school. He went to basic training two weeks two weeks after graduation. Basic training and advanced training at Fort Benning, Georgia (which actually – for his particular job skill - took place all at once in what the Army called OSUT or One Status Unit Training) seemed very long at the time but was quite short in hindsight. Fourteen weeks of grueling training weeded out the weakest among them – seventeen of the original sixty-four in the platoon did not graduate – before Jack and his buddies marched across the parade field and were declared U.S. Army infantrymen. Jack was declared the honor graduate and was promoted to the pay grade of E2 as part of the graduation ceremony.

Jack's parents came to the graduation, of course, but the break and family reunion was short lived, only a few days. That Friday, Jack reported for another three weeks of training at the basic paratrooper course. Upon graduating from that course, Jack was finally granted three days of leave before reporting to the transportation office for a flight to his first permanent duty assignment.

That first assignment was almost like being sent back home as it was placement with the 173rd Infantry Brigade Combat Team in Vincenza, Italy. Jack was able to put his little utilized Italian language skills to some use during joint training with Italian army units and with local Italians. He even received an additional pay allowance for his proficiency in the language. Six months after his assignment, Jack was recognized for exemplary performance and promoted to the pay grade of E3. He served in Italy from October 1997 until September 1998.

Just when Jack was getting used to being in Italy, he received orders transferring him to the 2nd Battalion, 325th Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. This kind of bouncing around was not uncommon. Having grown up as an Army brat, Jack had become quite used to moving from post to post with some regularity. Jack enjoyed the high operations tempo of the 82nd Airborne Division and, as always, rose to the challenge it offered him. After one year as an E3, he was again promoted, this time to the grade of E4. Jack served at Fort Bragg from September 1998 to December 2000. During his time in Italy and at Fort Bragg, Jack somehow managed to complete a bachelor's degree in history, as well.

Jack was surprised in December of 2000 when he was promoted to the grade of E5, a sergeant, and received transfer orders to the 3rd Battalion, 15th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Armored Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division at Fort Stewart, Georgia. After three years as a light infantryman, he was being transferred to a mechanized infantry unit to serve as a team leader. This would be a whole new experience for him. First of all, he would have to learn how to operate the Bradley Fighting Vehicle and understand all of its capabilities. Next, he would have to learn how to lead soldiers in conjunction with operating with Bradleys in combat. As with everything Jack did, he threw himself completely into his new task, learning everything he could about the Bradley and even about joint operations with armored units, those equipped with M1A1 Main Battle Tanks.

Jack not only had his eyes opened to the world of mechanized warfare while at Fort Stewart, but to that of Immortals and Watchers, as well. His plans to become a commissioned officer in the military were dashed and replaced by a career in the Watcher Organization. Before that, though, came a deployment to Iraq. And after that, the Watcher Academy.

The twenty-five days of combat in Iraq were primarily a blur for Jack. He recalled lots of fragments but, if one were to ask him for a detailed account, he would be hard pressed to provide one, He could recount the official statistics of his task force, that the 1st Battalion, 15th Infantry destroyed twenty-nine tanks, seventy-nine BMPs (Boyevaya Mashina Pekhotys, Russian infantry fighting vehicles), one hundred twenty-eight technical (trucks with weapons installed on them), killed nine hundred ninety infantrymen, and took four hundred eleven prisoners. Other than that, the bronze star with V device (for valor) he was awarded, and the friend he lost during that operation, he could not tell much about what happened while he was overseas. "I can tell you a lot about Shane," he would say, "but not much else."

xxxxxxxxxx

Jack's military history held everyone's interest throughout its telling although he did commit the cardinal sin of servicemembers and slip into speaking in acronyms. This caused him to have to stop several times to have to either define the acronym or the concept behind the defined acronym. After a while, he started to do this as part of the story.

He finished the military tales and moved on to the Watcher Academy part of his story. Although still interesting to the listeners in the room, several of the more attentive ones picked up on the fact he was now speaking in much vaguer generalities. Ashton smirked at this while understanding it completely. Not only were there over half a dozen Immortals in the room, but the director of the area under whom's jurisdiction Jack currently fell was also there; Jack would be feeling more than a little pressure to consider regarding what he could and could not tell about Watcher training.

When Jack started telling about his pontifications about who his first assignment would be, everyone at the table, even Tristan, began to laugh. Now Jack began telling the table about his first day as Tristan's Watcher, specifically the events at the bus station in Birmingham and later in Tallahassee. He included considerably more detail than Tristan had in his telling and, not surprisingly, had everyone at the table in stitches as a result.

Alyssa, sitting next to Tristan, began to look back and forth between him and Johnny, who was on her other side, and asked, "Are all little boy Immortals insufferably charismatic when it comes to gullible teenage girls or is it just these two?"

"Come on," demanded Tristan playfully. "You love us and you know it."

"Beside the point" said Alyssa flatly.

"And doesn't that question say something about you, too?" asked Johnny, tapping her arm.

"Not a bit. I happen to recall choosing you, not the other way around." She grinned back at him.

"Oh, yeah." Johnny slumped back in his seat and was quiet.

Alyssa patted him on the head. "Good boy."

Jack continued his story, detailing his trek through northern Florida and all his attempts not to be seen. This became more animated at Tristan jumped in occasionally, adding his observations, and the full story came together.

"So you spotted him the first time at the bus station in Alabama?" asked Sather.

"Yeah," answered Tristan. "But he was just another guy, then. In Tallahassee, it made sense seeing him 'cause he had been on the same bus. I didn't start really paying attention to him until he started following me."

"When did you notice that?" the director queried.

"I thought I saw something the night before, but I was getting tired so I didn't pay attention to it. The next morning, I was sure, though."

"And you let him follow anyway?" asked Ashton.

"I took some precautions. I put my bayonet into a ready position so I could reach it easily and made sure I was always close to it."

"I saw him do that," said Jack. "It was obvious he was very proficient with that thing."

"What did you have?" Sather again.

"An M9 bayonet. That reminds me. I still need to get a replacement. I'm still carrying one of Johnny's knives."

Ashton nodded. "We'll work on that. Continue, Jack"

"Well, this little scamp led me around for a few weeks before stopping at a friend of a friend's house, having a hot meal, a shower, and a nap while I baked outside," Jack grinned at Tristan as he said this, "and then poisoning me a few days later."

"Two hot meals," Tristan corrected with his own grin, "and he even let me have a few beers to go with them." There were chuckles around the table. "He also gave me some advice on how to keep you alive if I overdid it with the atropine in your trail mix."

"Back up and tell us that part, both of you," said Ashton.

They did so, first Jack and then Tristan telling about the use of seeds in the ambush event from their perspectives. Jack then told them, much to his embarrassment, especially with Sather in the room, about the interrogation that followed.

Sather shook his head at the end of it all. "No worries about that, Jack. You didn't give away anything that Tristan wouldn't have learned when he got to this house anyway. Don't trouble yourself."

Ashton leaned back in his seat, a little smile on his lips. He looked at Tristan. "I'm still intrigued at how much of this you picked up from those two NCOs, Woodham and Boatwright." The smile blossomed. "God, I'd love to see those men again."

He brought the palm of his hand down on the table flatly, the bang of it jolting one or two of the people at the table. "I'm going to break Immortal protocol somewhat. I'm inviting them here."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, David?" asked Vivia, her eyes going to Sather for confirmation. His expression was one of shock.

"Probably not. I'm doing it anyway. They already know Immortals exist because of Tristan. Knowing about another one won't come as a great surprise to them. Tristan, would you give me their addresses? I'll write a letter to them. Val, would you coordinate the travel for them and their wives to arrive, let's say, two weeks or so from now, if they're available? All expenses paid, of course."

"Yes, sir," replied Val, taking out his notebook.

"I'm sorry, Jack, please continue."

Jack's story from the time of poisoning in the state park until the cruise to England matched Tristan's tale almost exactly. Events during the cruise differed only as a result of what one saw and the other did not. Once they arrived in England, however, everything changed. Jack had followed at a discreet distance until Tristan had reached Queen's Park. He had witnessed the meeting between Farid, Steyn, and the other men as well as Tristan's interest in it. He has even snapped a photograph or two of it all.

Once Steyn had spotted Tristan in the tree, however, the two stories diverged radically. Jack had attempted to follow the group of young Immortals as they fled the park without being noticed. He had been stalled by one of the Southampton constabularies, however. Unlike Hakim Al-Ghamdi, Jack had not resisted the constables and had submitted to their questioning. Once they accepted his story that he was "just trying to help those kids," he had been released. "Those kids" were long gone, though.

"I still had a cell phone and a laptop," Jack reminded the table, "but I had to figure out how to make them both work with the British telecom system. In the case of the cell phone, it just meant severe roaming charges; that didn't make my area manager back in the States very happy."

"Who is that?" asked Sather.

"Clive Bohannon," replied Jack.

Sather squinted in thought. "A bit short, dark but graying hair, glasses, soft voice, but ill-tempered?"

Jack grinned and nodded. "That's him."

Sather nodded, as well. "Yeah, I know him. He's an ass. He used to be a regional director and was a total son of a bitch. One of the best things I did as EDOW before going back to area director myself was to bust him back to Field Watcher. Secretly, I think that's what he wanted anyway because he never actually fought it. He was a very good field man. Looks like he got promoted again and he's back to his old habits."

"Anyway," Jack continued, "Clive insisted that I continue to get information through the Georgia / Florida channels rather than the European network. This meant all I could do was hole up in a hotel and wait for updates. I spent days just waiting for information to come through the computer. By the time it did, it was typically too late for me to do anything about it. For example, I learned about your stay at the Savoy the day after you checked out."

He gave Tristan a smile as he said this. "The update said you had just checked in. It didn't even say that had met with Mr. Ashton or explain in any way how you could have afforded to stay at such a nice place.

"I went to London to look for Tristan there. I checked at the Savoy but, of course, they would say nothing about the guests who had resided there. I checked into another hotel to think about what to do. I admit I sat around for another week just reading books and going stir crazy while waiting for information from my side of the world. I sent a message to them every morning and evening asking for word and always got nothing.

"By the fourth of June, I've finally had enough of the waiting around. Clive was giving me no information about Tristan's whereabouts and was dropping hints about bringing me back to the States. That morning, I sent him a message asking who the area director in this part of of England was. When he responded, he didn't give me a name, but he did say that under no circumstances was I to contact you; I was only to communicate with him."

Sather laughed again. "Typical Bohannon."

"I then had to facepalm myself for asking Clive such a question. I had finally figured out how to make the laptop work with the hotel's ISP so I just logged into the Watcher VPN and looked up the area director myself. I did a little digging around in the recent updates of the chronicles of some of you in the room - sorry about that - and saw that you had a new houseguest. Needless to say, I wanted to jump on a train and come straight here. I decided I also didn't want to completely burn myself with Clive, either."

"Smart," said Sather.

"So I enjoyed myself for a few days at Watcher expense and sent him a message last night. I said Tristan's entire goal in the first place was to get to you," he pointed at Ashton," so I was going to Hereford early in the morning to see if I could spot him. I didn't say, of course, that I was going to do something as brazen as walk up to the front gate."

"True," said Ashton, "a typical Watcher would have tried getting a position on the base and working his way into being able to observe us eventually as he was able. You used a more Sather-like technique and came through the front door."

"It worked, didn't it?" asked Sather.

"Yes, it did," Ashton agreed, chuckling.

"Now, what do we do with you, Jack," Sather wondered aloud.

Ashton waved a hand. "The first thing is we let the man rest. He's had a good meal and a busy morning. I've got a spare room for him. We can discuss it further later today."

"The first thing is obvious," Sather continued as if Ashton had not spoken. "We've got to transfer you to the English sector and away from Clive Bohannon before he shuts you down completely." Finally acknowledging Ashton, he said, "I'll take care of that while you're resting."

Jack looked down at his empty plate and then back at Ashton. "Please pass on my thanks to Terry for the wonderful meal. I highly enjoyed it."

Ashton grinned. "He will be most appreciative. I will do that." He glanced at his watch. Standing, he said, "Let me show you to your room and then I must get ready for my briefing."

xxxxxxxxxx

That evening, Ashton was leaving his bedroom when he found Asami standing halfway down the stairs between the first and second floor. He stood at the top of the second floor, looking down at her quizzically. Noticing him, Asami turned and put a finger to her lips, grinning and motioning for him to approach. He came down the steps as quietly as possible until he stood behind her. Asami pointed into the living room.

Jack Connelly sat on one of the couches with a very happy looking Tally in his lap. They were chatting about something while taking turns working on a large cuboidal, three-dimensional wooden puzzle, its pieces scattered on the cushion next to them.

A grin still on her lips, Asami leaned into Ashton's chest and whispered, "Jack seems to have Tally's seal of approval."

Wrapping an arm around her, he whispered back in her ear, "I guess we should trust him, then. She always has a good judge of character."

"Should we go down there and interrupt them?" she asked.

"No, let's enjoy that smile on Tally's face a little bit longer," Ashton replied.

They reached the last piece of the puzzle. Jack offered it to Tally.

"No," she insisted. "It's your turn. You do it." He clicked it into place.

"There," the little girl declared. "All done. You're good at these. We'll have to do more together." Setting the puzzle aside, she rearranged herself in his lap, kneeling atop his legs to look him directly in the face. "I've got more. We can try another one tomorrow, if you like." She smiled at him, its effect enrapturing.

Jack grinned back at her. "That was a lot more fun that I thought it would be," he admitted. "I'd like that."

"There is one thing we have to do first, though," she said conspiratorially.

"What's that?" Jack asked her, almost in a whisper.

Grinning, she said, "We have to ask my daddy if you'll be here tomorrow."

"That's true. We don't know that yet."

Still grinning, Tally said, "We could ask him right now."

"We can?" asked Jack, looking confused.

"Sure." Turning her head toward the stairs, Tally's grin grew as she asked a little louder, "Can he stay, Daddy?"

Up on the stairs, Ashton whispered to Asami, "Worth it."

"I agree," she replied.

Back in the living room, Jack did not wait for an answer. His head snapped to the left, taking in the sight of Ashton and Asami halfway up the stairway gazing down at them. He blushed. He waited for Tally to turn her smiling face back to him.

"You sneaky little devil," he declared playfully. "You set me up."

Giggling, Tally nodded. "Yes, I did," she admitted, putting her arms around Jack's neck and lightly brushing his nose with hers. "And it was funny." She still grinned at him.

"Be that as it may, little girl, something must be done about it. Some sort of punishment must be enacted. I think your father would agree with that." Jack looked in Ashton's direction. "Wouldn't he?"

"Clearly," responded Ashton with a smirk.

Sensing the mood of the game, Tally played along with Jack. "What kind of punishment?"

"Oh," said Jack, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, "something like…" his eyes came back to her, "...this."

His hands rose from the couch, his fingertips raking along the little girl's ribcage. Despite expecting him to do something, Jack's tickling caused Tally's tiny body to jolt forward, slamming into his chest as she convulsed with laughter. He wrapped his arms around her to prevent her escape and continued the lighthearted assault on her ribs and back. Her legs shot out behind her as she squirmed in an attempt to free herself. Her arms were pinned in the tickling embrace.

Jack flipped the girl over and renewed the game with tickles to her abdomen, ribs, and under her arms. He would stop every few seconds to let her catch her breath and then continue anew, her squeals filling the room. All the while, Ashton and Asami watched and chuckled to themselves. During one of the breaks, Asami considered saying it was time to end the game but Tally turned and pounced on Jack a few seconds later. Asami grinned; both sides were obviously enjoying this.

After several more minutes, Jack stopped his tickling, pulling Tally back into his lap. They had both wiggled their way onto the floor at this point. Tally was breathing hard and had a sheen of sweat on her face; Jack was also somewhat winded himself. Both were grinning happily. Jack leaned against the front of the couch while Tally did the same against his chest. Looking down at the living room floor, Jack began to laugh to himself.

Turning her head to look up at him as best as she could, Tally asked, "What's so funny?"

Pointing, Jack said, "We knocked the puzzle apart."

Seeing the wooden pieces scattered across the floor, Tally began to chuckle, as well. "I guess we can put it together tomorrow, too." She looked up at the stairs again. "Can he stay, Daddy?"

"Looks like the kids had fun," Ashton whispered.

"It was fun to watch," Asami replied.

Louder, Ashton responded, "Of course, he can."

xxxxxxxxxx

12 June 2004

Kunar Province, Afghanistan

Near Asadabad

Zarang Mirza set his cart by his hut, another long day complete. He wiped his sweaty brow with his sleeve and let out a long breath of satisfaction. To any who saw him, they would think he was pleased as simply finishing another day in the fields. This was true. He was also pleased with finally having sent his message successfully.

Zarang reached into the cart and picked up a few of his tools along with his satchel. The tools he would make a show of sharpening before the light grew too dim. The satchel was concealed among them as much as it needed to be. If asked, he simply needed it to carry his identification papers if the Americans asked for them. The clothing he wore that day lacked pockets. No one needed to know about the transceiver also contained within the satchel.

Entering his hut, Zarang greeted Ariana with his usual glibness. She gave him her typical smile and said dinner would be ready soon. Inwardly, Zarang wished he could tell her about his accomplishment of the day. No, he could let her know everything once they were out of the country and safe. There were too many listening ears around at the moment; too many who could not be trusted.

Zarang sat at his end of the hut and set his tools down in a pile. Making sure Ariana's back was to him, he quickly tucked the satchel under his pillow and smoothed down the blanket. He then turned his attention back to the tools, muttering about a chip in one of them that he would have to buff out before twilight. Ariana replied that he'd best get to it lest he get too comfortable where he sat. Grunting in agreement, Zarang slowly rose and made his way back outside.


	22. What You See Is Real

Author's Note: I admit I know nothing about Olympic diving. The pool scene is based off a YouTube video almost word for word. You can find that video at /2Wr50tQIO-c.

When Ashton speaks to Sather about British army officer versus enlisted fitness standards, that is based off of information from these two websites: .uk/training-guide/soldier-fitness-tests/ and .uk/training-guide/officer-fitness-tests/. I checked these standards against the official British army website at . /how-to-join/can-I-join/fitness and at . /roles/infantry/infantry-soldier and they check out fairly accurately.

"Broken hearts lie victims of the game  
Then good luck it finally struck like lightning from the blue  
Every highway leading me back to you  
Now at last I hold you, now all is said and done  
The search has come full circle, our destinies are one  
So if you ever loved me show me that you give a damn  
You'll know for certain the man I really am"

"The Search Is Over" - Frank Sullivan / Jim Peterik

13 June 2004

Hereford, England

Tristan stood in Ashton's training hall, somewhat bewildered. He looked about the room but only saw Ashton, Dublin, Asami, Johnny, Alyssa, Sather, Paula, Raven, and Jack, all dressed for working out, no one else. He turned his gaze to Ashton, curiosity on his face.

"You said I was starting a new martial art today. Where is the instructor? Is he running late?"

With a chuckle, Ashton said, "No, the instructor is already here. You're going to start learning Filipino martial arts today and the best possible instructor for that is right here." He pointed.

"Really?" asked Tristan, surprise in his voice. "Asami?"

Asami smiled demurely at him, but said nothing. "She's remarkable," Ashton replied, "and it will be excellent preparation for the weapons training I have in mind for you later on. First, though, you must learn this."

"The best thing," added Asami, stepping forward, "is Filipino martial arts starts with weapons training right from the start." She walked over to a table and picked up a pair of escrima sticks. "We will start with these and work our way up to other weapons."

She handed the pair of sticks to Tristan. He stared at them blankly and then looked up at Asami. She smiled again.

"Don't worry. I will show you everything." She turned to the rest of the group. "Everyone, pick up your sticks, please."

Each person walked over to the table and picked up a pair of escrima sticks. Asami took her place in the center of the room. The others formed a circle around her. She smiled at the little group.

"Okay, let's begin."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm already starting to feel it now, Johnny," Tristan groaned that evening, leaning back on the headboard of his bed.

"The pain from all the training?" Johnny sat sideways in Tristan's desk chair, one arm crooked and dangling leisurely over the back.

"Yeah, I'm getting up at four and working out with you and that gets a little harder each day; that's two hours. Then I shower and have breakfast. Now I've got Asami's class at eight thirty, then my math tutor at ten. Lunch is at noon. _Systema_ is at two o'clock. My writing tutor is at three thirty until five. Then I have study time until dinner at six-thirty. It's like three major physical workouts and then two brain drains between them. I'm zonked and this is just the first day. My hands were shaking so much I could barely hold a pen for either of my classes. And that's not even counting the time I've been spending with you and Alyssa at night learning Arabic and Hebrew."

Johnny grinned at his friend. "Part of that is just your body getting used to the workouts. Another bit is nutrition. The more you're pushed physically, the more your body is going to go into a nutritional deficit. You'll need to start changing what you eat to compensate for it."

"Like broccoli and kale and stuff like that?"

"Vegetables won't hurt, but you can still have fun stuff, too. David and I still eat what we like, if you haven't noticed, but we eat a lot of what would be considered good stuff, too. I think your Watcher friend said something about it over the weekend, something about our having a higher metabolism than mortals do because of our healing rate. I thought my appetite was just because I was a teenager but it makes sense. We need to eat a lot to make up for that healing. You've been doing part of it already."

"Really? Like what?"

"Like at breakfast. I've noticed you've been eating more omelettes and turkey sausage and fewer pancakes and buttered toast."

"It's what I've been in the mood to have," Tristan declared.

Johnny grinned and countered, "It's what your body's been telling you it needed after your workouts. It needed proteins and fats more than it needed carbohydrates to rebuild itself now that you're tearing it down every morning. It also needs vitamins," - he pronounced it vit-a-mins - "minerals, and other nutrients, too. That's what we need to work on giving it. We can do that without taking all the fun out of meals."

"What about these body aches I have?"

"Part of that is just getting used to the workouts. The rest we can handle with stretching and diet again."

"Can we start now?"

"Sure," said Johnny, grinning again. "It's dinnertime." As they walked to the door, Johnny held up a finger to emphasize his thought. "Perhaps, now that you have these tutors, we should work out a more consistent timeline for your language tutoring, too, so you're not so wasted at the end of the day."

xxxxxxxxxx

The voice sounded different after nearly forty years but it still brought a torrent of memories flooding into Ashton's mind. He grinned into the mouthpiece of the phone as he listened. Leaning back in his chair, he clicked the mouse to the computer in his home office, bringing up a scanned picture from Vietnam. He looked at the picture of his old team, at the man speaking to him now, wondering what he looked like now.

"Matt," he said into the phone, "I'm absolutely thrilled to hear that you and your wife will be coming to visit."

"How could I not?" replied the old soldier. "Out of the blue I get a letter from my old commander who just happened to meet an incredible boy I had the pleasure of knowing ten years ago and get an invitation to come visit for a few weeks? There's no way I could say no. And you said Boat was coming, as well, right?"

"That's right. I just got off the phone with him a while ago. He and Beth will be here on the twenty-eighth. I've already wired the money to them to cover the travel costs."

"Woah, really? Is he hurting that badly? Lily and I could have helped him out."

Ashton chuckled. "I know I didn't say it in my letter, but there is no way I would invite you halfway around the world after forty years and expect you to pay for it yourself. This is on me, old friend. Everything. You are my guests and I intend to spoil the four of you rotten."

There was a gasp on the other line. "Well, this is a surprise. I guess there is nothing I can say except, "I accept," and "Thank you very much." We will also be there on the twenty-eighth."

Ashton took down Matt Woodham's bank account information and tapped it into his computer.

"Okay, you will have the funds you need to cover everything, plus any incidentals, for the trip."

"Thank you very much, sir," said Woodham.

Ashton laughed again. "And none of that "sir" shit while you're here. First names only.

Woodham laughed, as well. "Can do." Then, with a sarcastic tone, he added, "sir."

Both men laughed again.

"Now let me add," said Ashton, "that I am still working on a few things here so I might get called away now and then. It shouldn't be too bad, though. There will be plenty here to entertain everyone. Worst case, you and Boat and the wives can play with Tristan."

Woodham chuckled again. "I have missed that boy. So has Lily. It will be nice to see him again."

"He talks about you a lot, too. In fact, he's just walked by the room. Would you like to speak with him?"

"Absolutely," replied Woodham, excitement in his voice.

Tristan stopped when he realized Ashton was talking about him. He glanced toward the Minoan and saw the man motioning for him to enter the office. Placing a hand over the mouthpiece, Ashton whispered, "Matt Woodham," and offered the phone to him. A smile exploding onto his face, Tristan bounded into the office and took the phone.

"Hi, Matt," he chirped, standing by Ashton's left knee.

"Hi, Tristan. Oh, my, it's been eight years. It's great to hear your voice again."

"It's great to hear yours again, too. I've missed you. I've missed Lily, too. Are you two going to come visit?"

"Yes, we are. Captain Asher, er, I guess it's Colonel Asher now, was kind enough to send us the money to come over there for three weeks."

"Yeah, he's really cool about stuff like that. He's teaching me a lot of things that I couldn't learn before. I think it's really going to help a lot."

"That's wonderful. If anyone can teach you the things you need to know, he can."

Tristan's eyes went wide. Ashton had pulled up the Vietnam picture again. He was pointing at the picture of Woodham in the team photo.

"Oh, cool," he said into the phone, moving a little closer to Ashton as he did so. Almost absentmindedly, Ashton's left hand slipped slowly around the boy's abdomen.

"What is it?" asked Woodham.

"He's got a photo on the computer," said Tristan. "It's of all of you guys in Vietnam, I guess. You all look so different."

Woodham chuckled again. "Yeah, we were a lot younger then."

"You look like you could take on the world," Tristan remarked, not realizing he had taken a seat in Ashton's lap now.

"It's true," said Ashton, loud enough so Woodham could hear. "They could."

Woodham laughed. "Sometimes it seemed like we were. We had good help from the Degar, though. They were the real lions out there."

"When will you be here?" Tristan asked.

"On the twenty-eighth," replied Woodham. "Lily will be with me and so will John Boatwright and his wife, Beth."

"Awesome!"

"Yes, it will be. I look forward to seeing you again."

"I look forward to seeing you again, too."

"You have a good night, Tristan."

"You, too. Do you want to talk to… Captain Asher again?"

"Sure."

Handing the phone back, Tristan noticed where he was. He also realized he was not uncomfortable there. He remained in place while Ashton said his goodbyes and rang off.

"Well," said Ashton, "that was a pleasant conversation."

"Yeah, it was. It will be so cool to see them again. I've missed them." He looked closer at the photo on the screen. He pointed at Ashton's picture. "You were their commander, right?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"I was responsible for planning missions, training, meeting with local officials, and reporting back to our company, all of the administrative stuff. I also went on missions with them sometimes."

"They made it sound like you did everything."

Ashton chuckled and leaned back in his chair. Tristan did the same, leaning into Ashton's chest.

"No, those eleven men did most of the real work. What you don't see are the Degar, the indigenous people we were training to fight the insurgents and the North Vietnamese regulars, they were the real fighters. You see the twelve of us, but there were two hundred of them. God, they made they VC and the regulars howl. They were a real menace."

"Were they really that good?"

"They were incredible, at least until the U.S. decided to redeploy all of the trained Mongangards into base camps along the Laotian and Cambodian borders. Their families insisted on staying with them. The food and logistics situation became terrible at that point. Even worse, command of them was handed over to the Vietnamese in 1970. Then everything really went downhill."

"Sad," whispered Tristan.

"Yes," agreed Ashton. "We were gone by then and didn't see that happen. Just heard about it. We were livid, of course, but there was nothing we could do about it except read about it and get mad."

"There are other wars going on now. Are they like that?"

"There are similarities and differences," Ashton replied. "Hopefully, people have learned their lessons from the past and won't make the same mistakes."

xxxxxxxxxx

One side of the living room adjoined Ashton's office. From it, Alyssa and Johnny sat on a couch. They could only hear snatches of the conversation but took pleasure in casually watching what they could see. Alyssa grinned and took Johnny's hand.

"I knew he could do it."

"What?" whispered Johnny.

"David winning over Tristan. Remember how skittish he was when we left the hotel?"

"Yeah."

"He was practically terrified of David at the time. I thought he wanted to hide behind me the whole ride back here. Now look at him."

A grin formed on Johnny's lips, too. "What can I say? David has a unique way with kids, especially when they're scared. He can make you feel safe and loved. After a while, it's just natural to do that." He gestured toward the office.

"I know," agreed Alyssa, putting her head on Johnny's shoulder. "You still do it all the time."

Laughing, Johnny replied, "As if you don't, too."

"Not as often as you do, my dear."

"Like I said, it's just natural." He put an arm around her and pulled her close. "Besides, that's what boys do when they love someone."

"You don't sit in my lap."

"Do you want me to?" He gave her a light tickle in the ribs as he asked the question. "I will if you want."

"Uhm, probably not. You only weigh, what, seven kilos less than me? That might be a bit much."

"So there. I still love you. Let me change it then. That's what a boy does when he loves an adult. How's that?"

"Better," Alyssa admitted. Putting her own arm around him, she added, "With that clarification, I can safely say, you're mine."

Johnny laughed. "I'll agree to that."

xxxxxxxxxx

Raven knocked on Paula's open bedroom door. Paula was focused on her laptop, a pair of earbuds in her ears, an iPod near at hand. The volume was high enough Ray could hear the music from where she stood. She didn't recognize the band, some German heavy metal band.

"Paula," Raven called while knocking louder.

Paula jumped in her seat. Her head snapped to the doorway, her eyes wide.

"Shit," she said aloud, pulling out her earbuds. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."

Raven grinned at her friend. "You were blaring, well, whatever that is."

"It's an old band. They're called Megaherz. They've been around for about ten years. They're really good if you're into metal."

Raven reached for the buds. "May I?"

"Sure."

Raven put the buds in her ears and listened for a while, closing her eyes to focus on the music better. She began to sway along with the beat of the song. She handed the buds back when it ended.

"I like it but, of course, I couldn't understand a word of it. What's the name of that song?"

"That one was called _Funf März,_ the Fifth of March," Paula replied.

"I might have to get into German metal."

Paula grinned at her.

"I'm serious. It seems like German is a great language for heavy metal."

"I'll agree with you on that one."

Raven glanced at the laptop screen. "Working late again?"

"Yeah," said Paula, turning back to the computer. "I think I'm turning into a night owl at this place. Sometimes I get up for breakfast. I think I'll make a habit of those Filipino and _Systema_ workouts, though; they're pretty good, and I sleep. Then I work."

"Yeah, you don't hang out with us much at all."

"Sorry. Sometimes, I'm just not in the mood to be social. What about you? What do you do?"

"I go to the _Systema_ workouts every day. I think those are incredible. I have pretty light days at the bar. I also like the new Filipino workouts. I think I'll keep doing those, too. I also have my side gig, too, of course."

"Oh, yeah. Have you been able to move that over from London?"

"Oh, yeah. I already have a few clients with the staff here, and Johnny, naturally."

Paula grinned. "What would Ashton think if he knew you were dealing drugs under the table?" she whispered.

Raven laughed as she sat on the end of Paula's bed. "He'd either fire me on the spot or he wouldn't care as long as it didn't interfere with how everyone did their jobs. One or the other."

Paula shrugged. "I guess you're right."

"It's light stuff anyway. Mostly weed and a little coke right now. Nothing big."

"Yet," said Paula.

"Right. Start small in the new place."

xxxxxxxxxx

14 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Val Dumitrescu was waiting at the bottom of the stairs as Ashton came down that morning. The expression on his face was dour. Other than that, there was no change from his normal behavior; his hands were clasped in front of him, feet shoulder width apart, eyes upon his commander awaiting orders.

"What's the problem, Val?"

"Is it that obvious, sir?"

"Your face is an open book."

"I'm sorry, sir." The expression changed to a blank slate. "I thought I had hidden it."

"There's no need to do that with me. You know that. Speak up." Ashton now stood in front of the large man. Despite their height difference, Ashton seemed to impose upon the taller man.

"I got a call this morning, sir." Ashton waited. "It's my father. He is ill. He is not expected to live much longer. Perhaps a week."

"And you would like to go home to be with him," Ashton finished for the Romanian.

"Yes, sir," admitted Val, embarrassment in his voice. His head dropped in shame.

Ashton put a hand on the man's shoulder. "There is no need for awkwardness, Val. What you wish is completely normal. It's also the right thing to do. You do yourself no dishonor by requesting this. Of course, you can go. Stop by and see Robert before you leave." Robert Hilton was Ashton's lead accountant. "I want to cover your travel and all final expenses for your family, including any debts your father may have. What about your mother? Will she be able to support herself when he is gone?"

Val looked up in shock. "Sir, you don't have to do this."

Ashton squeezed his shoulder. "We're a family here, Val. We take care of each other. Now, about your mother?"

Val's eyes misted over. "There is a small pension which she will get from my father, but it will not cover everything."

"Contact Robert when you know what she'll need plus some more for personal expenses. He'll set up a monthly allotment for her as well as someone to take care of taxes. Make sure she's comfortable. I mean it. Don't be sparing with the numbers just because it's my money. Treat her right."

Val sniffed and wiped his eyes. "Thank you, sir."

"It's my pleasure, Val. Now go see your father and let us know about anything you need. Godspeed."

Val nodded and turned to leave. "Oh, one thing, sir," he said, turning back. "Here is my notebook of your appointments."

"Thank you. Now, I don't want to see you again until everything is handled back home."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

xxxxxxxxxx

14 June 2004

Croydon, England

Carlton Pollack examined his latest explosive with satisfaction. Like the other twenty-six, it was perfect. He ran the numbers in his head and smiled. Yes, at this rate, he would have the backpack units completed by the end of next month. The best part was that they would all be stable and completely effective a year from now when they were to be employed. After Pollack finished building those, the real work could begin…provided Steyn could continue supplying him with the necessary items he needed to continue his work.

He glanced down the walkway. Steyn had been spending a lot of time on his cell phone since the raid in Winchester; that had frayed his nerves certainly. Admittedly, most of those calls had been devoted to the logistical needs of their current project, but Pollack could sense growing frustration in the man, as well. Steyn's pacing while talking into his phone with this current call did not bode well, that was for sure. Steyn closed his phone and began to walk back toward Pollack, a scowl on his face.

"Bad news?" asked Pollack, already beginning on his twenty-eighth unit.

"Two of our weapons vans got stopped by police near Epsom this morning," Steyn growled. "They were carrying mostly rifles and ammunition, but they also had components needed for your work. It's going to slow us down somewhat."

"As annoying as it is," said Pollack flatly, "you built that kind of breakage into your plans from the beginning, didn't you?"

"Of course, I just prefer optimal output over standard. That's all."

"We've still had ten vans arrive in the last week. I'd say we're doing quite well. At this rate, I'll have these units complete by the end of next month. It's the other projects that concern me. We'll need larger shipments for those."

Steyn leaned on the walkway's railing and smirked as he watched Pollack work. "We've got more couriers arriving in ones and twos from the Middle East each week. Since they haven't strapped on one of our backpacks yet, they'll spend their time driving. Over the next year, they'll deliver what you need. I'll make sure you have what you need. Don't be concerned about that. The biggest part is timing the deliveries in such a way as not to raise too much attention. It's got to appear completely normal."

"I'd say you've done that so far."

"It would be a lot easier without having to deal with all these calls that Aadam used to handle. He decided to run off to fucking Afghanistan after that raid, though, and help with Rafa's recruiting drive. The fucker."

"Would you say he has the easier job?" Pollack's voice was still flat. He was mostly speaking automatically, just to have something to do while he assembled the bomb.

Steyn scoffed. "Ah, probably not. Afghanistan is a shithole. It's good for finding people willing to die for a cause, but not much else. Even Aadam is too civilized for that place."

Steyn's phone rang again. He glared at it menacingly, checking the caller ID, before flipping it open. When he spoke, it was in Afrikaans.

" _Ja?"_ (Yes?)

" _Jy is?"_ (You are?)

" _Dit is interessant."_ (That is interesting.)

" _Hou my op hoogte."_ (Keep me updated.)

He closed the phone, his mood improved somewhat. Pollack set down his tools and turned to face him.

"What is it?"

"An interesting development," mused the South African. "It might be substantial or it might be nothing. I'll have to see how it turns out."

xxxxxxxxxx

14 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"What's this way?" asked Tristan, pointing down a hallway. Johnny turned to see where he was pointing. Before he could respond, Tristan sniffed the air. "Is that chlorine? Do you have a pool" Tristan grinned with excitement. "Do you have an indoor pool?"

Johnny returned the grin, putting his hands on his hips. "Of course." He waved his hands across his body. "You don't think I keep a swimmer's physique just in the summer, do you?"

Tristan's eyes widened. "But you never said you were swimming. I never saw you getting ready to go to a pool."

Johnny's grin spread further across his lips. "You were typically napping. You've been pretty beat lately."

"Let's go see it," Tristan exclaimed, dashing down the hall.

Johnny chuckled, following him. "Wow! His enthusiasm is indeed contagious."

Tristan stepped into the pool area and stood, gawking at its size. It was a massive fifty meter length pool with three diving boards at different heights. There was a hot tub built level with the floor off the side of the pool. Deck chairs and tables surrounded the pool. The whole setup reminded Tristan of the pool deck on the Norwegian Gem.

"Wow!," he gasped to himself.

"The pool is even heated," said Johnny, walking up behind him. "Not as much as the hot tub, but it's still very nice."

"Really?" asked Tristan, turning to face him. "That's so cool."

Turning back to the pool, Tristan saw that it was already occupied. The heads of Devon Sather and Vivia Wales broke water at that moment. Vivia saw them and waved.

"Hi, boys. Get changed and come on in." She gestured at the pool. "There's plenty of room."

Tristan's open mouth closed and formed a smile at the invitation. "We will. We'll be right back."

When they returned, Tristan immediately jumped from the floor into the water. He came back to the surface, his face beaming. He swam directly to Vivia who was treading water at the other end of the pool. She smiled warmly at him.

"Hello, pretty boy."

"Hello, pretty lady," he replied with a smile of his own. He paddled casually behind her. Underwater, he slowly placed his hands on Vivia's abdomen and interlaced his fingers. She giggled lightly at the sensation. He then gently clamped his knees on her hips. Lastly, he placed his chin on her shoulder and grinned. He had managed to attach himself to her back without disturbing her treading of the water.

Sather eyed Tristan with a smirk. "Who is he, Viv? Your new pool boy?"

"Well," replied Vivia, nuzzling Tristan's cheek with her own, "he's not the pool boy I expected, but I'll take him all the same." A moment later, Tristan giggled. "What? Did it take you that long to get the joke, silly boy?"

"No," said Tristan, still laughing. "It's just I can feel your stomach muscles moving whenever your legs kick." He looked around. Confused now, he asked the others, "Where's Johnny?"

Vivia pointed with her forehead. Tristan looked across to see Johnny climbing the ladder to the highest diving board. The dark-haired boy walked slowly to the end of the board, breathing deeply.

"Are you really going to try an Olympic dive off that board?" chided Sather.

"Quiet," retorted Johnny. "I haven't done this sort of thing for a long time. I need to concentrate." He took another breath.

"When was the last time you did it?" asked Vivia "Seriously, I mean, not just for fun."

Johnny cocked his head to the side. "1984," he replied.

Sather guffawed, still treading water. Johnny looked at Sather, a grin on his face.

"Check the Olympic game tapes and your Watcher chronicles, Dev. See if you spot a familiar face on the U.S. diving team."

Sather gawked up at him. "You're shitting me."

"Not a bit," replied Johnny.

"He's not," said Vivia. "I was a photographer at the games. I was at the diving event when he was competing. I have some great photos of the match, if you'd like to see them."

"No, thanks," said Sather. "Guys in Speedos aren't my thing. Now if you have any of the women's diving match, we'll talk."

Johnny turned and walked back to the far end of the board. Facing the pool, he stood up tall, taking another breath, his arms at his sides. His eyes were on the end of the board. Starting with his right foot, he took three long steps forward. After the third step, he pushed forward off of both feet. He swung his arms back, landing heel-to-toe on his left foot. His right leg was bent at ninety degrees. He jumped strongly off his left leg while driving up his right leg and his arms. As he neared maximum height, his right leg extended down. His arms circled down and back. His feet touched the springboard toe-to-heel. His knees bent to forty-five degrees while his arms swung overhead.

He jumped, driving his hips up and forward forty-five degrees. His head remained stationary while he raised his feet up to meet his hands. As he descended, he thrust his hips out of the dive while looking at his feet, his hands sliding onto his quadriceps. He tipped his head back to see the water below. He moved his arms laterally, graspings his hands overhead, and flattening his palms. He locked his elbows and contracted his abdominals and gluteal muscles. His forehead was pointed toward his hands.

As his elbows went through the water, he separated his hands. When his ankles entered the water, he scooped forward and up and bent his knees underwater. Coming out of the dive, Johnny grinned to himself and pumped his fist. It was a perfect reverse pike dive. He broke the surface, the grin still on his face. Vivia and Tristan were cheering his performance; Sather stared in amazement. Johnny swam over to them.

"That was awesome," proclaimed Tristan. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

"Sure," said Johnny. "It will take a little time, but you can certainly learn it. There are a lot of other cool dives, too. I'm a little out of practice on those, though."

"As out of practice as that one?" asked Vivia with a smirk.

Johnny grinned again. "No, much more out of practice. I won silver with that dive. I wasn't as good at the others." Spitting out a little pool water, Johnny added, "But it's not time to talk about old stuff now. It's time for more important things."

"Like what?" asked Vivia, eyeing him with a touch of suspicion.

"Pool hugs," Johnny declared, leaping forward and wrapping his arms and legs around Vivia. Beside him, Tristan began laughing and immediately joined in the game.

"Hey, you little water rats," protested Vivia loudly, though she was laughing herself all the while. "You're pushing me under."

"That's the point of pool hugs," explained Johnny, giggling and pushing a little harder. Tristan did the same. Vivia retaliated with her most powerful weapon: tickles. Fingertips to bare, wet ribs were remarkably potent. Johnny sprang back in the water as if electrocuted. He looked at Tristan, who nodded.

"Oh, shit," Vivia blurted, just before Tristan's fingers, still wrapped around her abdomen, assaulted her own bare ribcage. She tried to shake him off, but his legs were wrapped around her waist. He just giggled as she thrashed, her own laughter and flailing pulling them both under the water.

"Hey," barked Sather, "that's my girlfriend you're attacking, kids."

"Ah, poor little Dev feels left out," mocked Johnny in a high-pitched voice. Splashing water in Sather's face as a distraction, he pounced on the Watcher. "Join in, Dev. There are always more pool hugs."

Chuckling, Sather caught Johnny under the arms, lifted him up and threw him across the pool. Johnny flew back five meters before splashing into the water again. When he resurfaced, brushing his hair out of his eyes, his grin was even larger.

"And now the game really begins," he announced and began swimming back with renewed energy.

xxxxxxxxxx

15 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Ashton looked across the breakfast table. With a tiny grin that just touched his lips, he decided he liked having these larger groups at family meals. It certainly made for more lively conversation. He did wish Asami would join them instead of her usual habit of sleeping in every morning. He shrugged imperceptibly. Let her have her ways. There were still ten people at the table.

He glanced around. The meal was mostly complete and people had broken into individualized conversations. Both Tally and Marc had separately decided to take turns with different people's laps after breakfast. Tally would spend a morning with either Jack, Sather, Vivia or Ashton and Marc would spend a morning with either Sather, Vivia, Ashton, Tristan, or Johnny. Each had a lap for a different morning. Ashton didn't know how they had worked out the rotation. As far as he knew, they had not communicated with each other; they had just done it and without an overlap with anyone. Today, Tally was with Jack and Marc was with Tristan. They both seemed quite content even if they were not part of their "chair's" conversation. Ashton's minute grin grew slightly.

Ashton pulled out Val's notebook and opened it to the page for the day. Perusing it, he saw it would be a light day, nothing until a meeting at 10:00. Good. That would give him time to work out a few things with Sather once the meal broke up for good. He closed the book and put it away. A few minutes later, he got what he wanted. People began to stand and go about their separate ways.

"Sather, Jack, may I speak with you for a moment?"

The two men waited while the others left. Both had inquiring expressions. Ashton remained sitting so they did, as well.

Ashton eyed the two men. "It's been a few days now so I was wondering, if you're willing to tell, what the cover story is for Jack's staying at Stirling Lines? He will need one if he is to continue watching Tristan."

Sather grinned self-deprecatingly. "Alright, I'll admit I haven't even thought about it lately. I've been distracted by other matters in the area. Jack seemed to be taking care of himself so I didn't even think about it."

"Well, he can't freeload on my couch, figuratively speaking, forever." Ashton looked at Jack. "Any thoughts, Jack?"

Jack tapped his fingers on the table, saying nothing for a moment. He blinked and leaned back in his chair. "What about working as part of the house staff or for NextGen? As what, I'm not sure, but if I were here then I have every reason to be in the area and see whatever Tristan might be doing."

"Hmm," said Ashton, his own finger tapping the table. "Perhaps." He looked away and up, thinking. "You were a paratrooper and a team leader in the U.S. Army."

"Yes."

"Ever work in operations?"

"I had training in it, but never actually did it."

"Hmm. I need another operations assistant. I could put you there. Tristan will probably be here for at least a year so you'd certainly have time to learn the job. You could live in the staff apartments and work just down the street from here."

Jack's eyes widened in surprise. "Do you think I'm qualified for such a position?"

Ashton grinned at him. "You're certainly more qualified than someone off the street. You already know the lingo, you can read a map, you're computer literate, and you're tactically proficient. That puts you ahead of the vast majority of candidates who would interview for the job, even those with military experience. Most of them have spent their whole careers in office jobs. You have field experience. That's essential. Sure, you're in an office environment, but that experience is critical."

Jack smiled. "Then it sounds like I'm your man."

"So now you're just hiring my man out from under me, Ashton?" accused Sather.

"It looks that way," Ashton admitted. "Of course, you'll still have operational control of him on the Watcher side of things, but he'll be mine on the day-to-day end. For the most part, they'll be the same and it won't matter, just like what you do."

Sather shrugged and said nothing, only grinned. He then leaned forward, holding up a finger. "I never asked before. What do guys in your company make?"

"For this job?" Sather nodded. Ashton thought briefly. "It starts at £43,400 per year."

"Okay, I may have been in England for several years, but I still think in American money and I know Jack still does, so translate, please."

"Uhm," Ashton's eyes went up and to the right. "At the current rate of exchange, it would be about $78,000 per year."

"Holy shit!" exclaimed Jack. "For an entry level job?"

"I expect a lot from my people, Jack," said Ashton, "and I compensate them well for it."

"Damn," added Sather. "I'm in the wrong business. I should come work for you."

Jack laughed. "Oh, come on. You make more than that as an area manager."

"Yeah, but I could probably do the same thing working for him and make a lot more money."

Ashton just smiled at Sather, saying nothing. Jack turned back to Ashton.

"When do I start?"

Ashton checked his watch. "It's almost 08:45. Let me change and we can go in now. I'll show you around and you can start today."

Sather smirked as they stood. "Getting introduced to the minions by a brigadier general. You're moving up in the world, Jack."

"It's brigadier here, Sather," said Ashton, walking away.

"Whatever," retorted Sather with a snarky grin. "They're all officers to me. They all leave the real work to the enlisted joes."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Hello, Alan."

Ashton stepped into the operation center. He was dressed casually in slacks and a polo shirt. He rarely wore a uniform unless he was going to be at a range or at a training event. Most of the other NextGen employees, except the tactical teams, did the same. The only indication of their ranks were pins above the left breast.

"TOC, attention." Alan Weatheral and the rest of the operations center staff stood as Ashton entered the room. "Good morning, sir."

"Carry on," said Ashton casually. They all sat and resumed their work. "Alan, I'd like you to meet Jack Connelly."

"Jack," said Weatheral, shaking Jack's hand.

"Sir," replied Jack.

Ashton smirked. "We still need to teach him how to read our insignia. Alan here is a warrant officer one. It's not like warrant officers in the American army. The British army doesn't have those. He's an enlisted man, or other ranks, as they're also called. You'll learn more about it as you spend time here. Jack, like most of the civilian employees, also holds a military grade. Jack is an OR9 which is the same as E9 in the American Army. He is our operations sergeant major. You've already met Darren Dublin. He's my RSM, the regimental sergeant major, the highest ranking enlisted man in NextGen."

Jack smiled. "I guess I should stop calling him "Darren," then."

"At least while you're at work, yes."

Turning back to Weatheral, Ashton said, "Jack's fresh out of the U.S. Army and will be your new operations assistant. Whichever shift you like. He's just arrived in Britain so he'll need some help getting all the necessary documents arranged."

Weatheral nodded. "Not a problem, sir. We'll make it happen. We'll also get him started on learning the rank insignia and other unique traits of NextGen."

"Thank you, Alan."

"Yes, sir."

"This can be a busy place, Jack. Keep your mind and notebook open. You'll learn a lot. I'll leave him in your hands, Alan. He's all yours for the day."

"Yes, sir. I'll take care of him."

"I know you will. Good luck, Jack."

"Thank you, sir."

xxxxxxxxxx

The first twenty minutes of the briefing had gone well. It was the normal updates on equipment test results and expectations on reports to the development companies. Positive results meant more contracts for testing; negative results could mean fewer but correctness was more important. That was what the brigadier stressed at all times. He was more concerned about the lives of soldiers in the field than losing money on a contract.

Now the equipment testing part of the briefing was complete and they had moved to the tactical portion. As always, this was expected to be short, only what had not been covered a few hours before at the morning brief. Since the situation around the globe was always changing, this could be significant. The expressions on everyone's faces belied their expectations: no real change.

A door opened just as the brigadier asked the words that always prefaced dismissal, "Is there anything else?" A young female sergeant entered with a printout in her hands and placed it in front of Robyn Radway, the tactical operations officer. The brunette woman studied the two sheets intently. Ashton eyed her from across the table.

"Shit," said Robyn, with uncharacteristic profanity.

"What is it, Robyn?"

She held up the printout. "This is a transcript of a radio report from Afghanistan. Rafa Shinwari has been spotted in the Korengal Valley."

The pen Ashton had been flipping in his hand hit the table. In the back of the room, a number was whispered and bills were exchanged, a bet won.

"When?" Ashton asked.

Robyn looked at the printout again. "Three days ago. Looks like it took some time to bounce between our stations and make its way here."

"Who sent the report?"

"Zarang Mirza. He's asked that we extract him and his wife from the valley after we verify the legitimacy of his information. He said, "Keep the money. Just get us out, please.""

"I know Zarang," acknowledged Ashton.

Robyn looked up from her printout. "You do?"

"I recruited him as an informant a few years ago. Zarang is an educated man. He was a professor in Kabul when the Russians invaded in 1979. He fought against them until they left in the eighties. By the time the Taliban rose to power, his age and infirmities from fighting the Russians wore him down. He and his wife, Ariana, lost everything in the war with the Russians and they were living in a mud hut near Asadabad after it. That's where I found him and I expect that's where he still is. He's been keeping his head down, just trying to survive. He's likely still scratching out a living as a farmer now."

"Do you think his reports are credible?" asked Robyn.

"Absolutely," Ashton confirmed. "There's a good chance Shinwari's still there. We can't let this slip by. Niles."

"Sir?" replied Colonel Harrington.

"Mobilize teams three and four and two sniper teams from Alpha Company. Darren and I will be going as well. Coordinate with the Ministry of Defense and the Americans." Ashton glanced at a calendar on the wall. "We leave Sunday."

"Yes, sir," affirmed the colonel.

"I'm going to need some help here," Ashton muttered almost to himself. Looking up, he saw the sergeant who had delivered the message to Radway. "Sergeant Lehr, what critical tasks are your performing at the moment?"

"Other than delivering that message, sir, I was just revising rosters for Sergeant Major Dublin."

"Good," replied Ashton. "Tell Staff Sergeant Limbaugh to assign that to someone else. Until Valentin Dumitrescu gets back from Romania, you are my personal assistant, my memory, so to speak." He slid Val's notebook across the table. "After this bombshell, there is no way I'm going to be able to keep track of all of this myself. I'm going to need your help."

Sergeant Lehr paused briefly to take a breath. She then responded, "Yes, sir," and picked up the book. "I'll be right back, sir." She left the room.

"Now that that's handled," said Ashton, "let's adjourn, people. We now have a lot of work to do. Let's get to it."

The staff stood up and saluted.

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton met Jack at the door of the operations center at the end of the day. The Watcher looked haggard. Ashton smiled at him.

"Was it that bad, Jack?" he asked as they left the building. Ashton had opted to walk the short distance back to the estate. Jack had not argued.

"You said it could get busy in there. I had no idea it could be a hornets nest. That place is a whirlwind of activity. You and Sergeant Major Dublin and every other bigwig in NextGen were in and out of there all day. The multiple big screen televisions displaying all kinds of information was dazzling. There were intel reports popping up on the computer screens and pictures of high value targets flashing on the walls and constant calls of "Attention in the TOC" before someone gave an announcement." TOC is the acronym for Tactical Operations Center. "I thought my head was going to explode. It was a hell of a first day."

"So what did you think?"

"I loved it," said Jack, smiling at Ashton. "I loved every minute of it. Just change the clothes and it was like being in the Army again."

"It won't always be like that. There will be slow days, too, just like with anything. Be prepared for that. Probably not as many as you had in the Army. It seems we always have something going on here, but they're not always as high a priority as today."

"So what now?"

"Now the hard part," declared Ashton. "I have to tell the family I'm going away for a few weeks."

"Weeks? Your deployments are only weeks at a time?"

"Call it a perk of the job," said Ashton with a smirk. "We deploy for one job. Once it's done, we leave. What do you Americans call it? Train to task, not time? Same sort of thing."

"How often do you deploy with the men?"

"Often enough that my doing so doesn't surprise them anymore."

"Is this more of that lead from the front kind of mentality?"

"Call it that, if you want. I just can't stand sending those men into harm's way without taking some risk myself."

"But you're immortal."

"There's still a risk. It's just a matter of degree. A piece of shrapnel or a bullet at the right range or angle could take off my head just as easily as any other man."

"And there's another thing," said Jack with a smile.

"What's that?" asked Ashton.

"I read it a few years ago in _The Killer Angels_ by Michael Shaara. "There's nothing so much like a god on earth as a general on a battlefield.""

"Hah," laughed Ashton, slapping Jack on the back as they walked. "Well, that remains to be seen. I've seen those men in action. They've done some fairly godlike things themselves. I'm usually just the man that said, "Go," and that's it."

"Ah, but I had a lot of time to kill these last few weeks. I've read your entire chronicle, _Devesh_." He emphasized the name.

Ashton face darkened. "Never speak that name or anything having to do with it to any of them, Jack. Ever. Not even Vivia knows. I don't think even Sather has read that deeply."

Jack's smile dimmed, as well. "Is it that serious? It was twenty-eight hundred years ago."

"Ever, Jack." Ashton stopped walking and glared at the Watcher with fierce eyes. "That's the end of it."

"Understood, sir."

"Good. Let's get home."

xxxxxxxxxx

Sergeant Rachel Lehr stood at the back of Brigadier Ashton's sitting room. She bit her lower lip in apprehension and admitted to herself she would have felt more at ease in uniform rather than the civilian clothes the brigadier had asked her to wear for this meeting. She liked the anonymity the uniform gave her, the way she was able to fade into a mass of people in a formation.

It wasn't concern regarding attractiveness or lack of it. She knew how she looked, damn good if the mirror and the four men she had dated in the past were to be believed. Her overriding concern had nothing, in fact, to do with her appearance, gender, or any suspicion that her selection as the brigadier's "memory" had been anything but random chance. She had merely been in his field of vision when he had decided he needed someone to help him, the fact she was female and pretty be damned. That actually comforted her.

Of course, she worked in a primarily male organization so naturally there would be the good-natured ribbings to come, whether they were serious or not. Looking about the room, though, Lehr thought to herself that the other men in NextGen would have no room to talk. Lehr didn't know the names of all of these women but all of them, even the one sitting next to the dark-haired teenage boy, were gorgeous. No, any potential talk of her being chosen as a personal fling were out the window. One doesn't bring his new courtesan to his house hours later and parade her in front of two beautiful women, either one of whom could be his significant other. No, wait. Now she remembered. One of the other guys had said the brigadier had a Japanese girlfriend. Lehr had to stifle an audible gasp.

 _Oh, my God. She's absolutely stunning. To hell with anything those guys say. This is definitely all business._

Even given its size, the sitting room was at its limit for seating capacity. Brigadier Ashton was sitting at one end of the room on a brick fireplace with a view of the room. There were fifteen other people in the room including two small children, probably seven or eight years old. She recognized Sergeant Michael Rawlins from NextGen. One oddity she noticed about the room was there was no television. Instead of being oriented around viewing a television set, the furniture was set up with a slight focus toward the center of the room. Lehr almost laughed when she realized the intent of it all. It was designed for a family to interact, converse, and play, not to stare at a flashing box.

Her eyes wandered to the two children in the room. She had heard Brigadier Ashton had two adopted children but had never seen them. They were small enough that they both fit comfortably in one of the overstuffed reclining chairs. Lehr wanted to smile at the cuteness of this, especially the way they had their arms around each other, but the hint of melancholy on their faces told her the children knew what was coming.

 _They've seen this kind of meeting before…and they don't like it at all. They're comforting each other._

Lehr scanned the room again. Her eyes met Ashton's. He made a minute gesture indicating she should sit. She nodded and took the only available seat, a spot on a wraparound couch next to the attractive dark-haired woman with the silver cuff on her left ear.

With the raising of a hand, Ashton brought the room's muted conversation to a standstill. He swept the room with his eyes. Lehr found herself amazed. This was a side of the man she had never seen. At NextGen, there was the ever confident Brigadier Ashton, but here he was a father, lover, and friend. She saw doubt and discomfort in those dark blue eyes; she saw humanity.

 _My, God, if he weren't already taken, I could fall for him right now just for that expression on his face._

"What I'm about to say isn't easy, everyone," he began. He didn't get any farther before the two children left their seats and ran to him, each of them sitting as close on either side of them as they could. He put an arm around each of them and pulled them close. "I have to go away for a while with some of the boys. I don't know how long we'll be away. It might be a few weeks or a few months. We'll be back as soon as we can."

 _Yes, he's even using a different tone of voice. He's not a general now. He's daddy. We're in the room, but he's talking to those two little ones._

"When are you leaving?" asked the Japanese woman.

"Sunday morning," Ashton replied.

"Where are you going?" asked the little boy, craning his head up to look at his daddy.

"I can't say right now," Ashton said, hugging his son again. "I'll be able to talk to you on video now and then, though."

"I'll miss you," the boy admitted, his eyes already tearing up but his voice unaffected.

"I'll miss you, too." Ashton pulled both children to him as he looked up at the others in the room. "I'll need everyone's help while I'm away." He turned his head to the far left, facing Lehr. "Sergeant Lehr, may I call you Rachel?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. _Who am I to refuse a brigadier such a minor thing?_

"Rachel, as I said in our meeting earlier, I will need your help with keeping track of both work and personal matters until my assistant returns from Romania. That will continue until I leave. At that time, you will assist Asami and the other staff," he motioned toward the Japanese woman with his head, "and I will have another personnel help me with military affairs while I'm abroad."

"Yes, sir," said Lehr, nodding.

"Sebastian, Gwen, Catherine, and Terry will be available to help you, as well." The people he called by name raised their hands so she could identify them. Lehr hastily scribbled their names in the notebook for reference later.

"Asami, Vivia, Michael, Alyssa, Johnny, please help Tristan with his training while I'm away. Of course, everyone please look after my two favorite children, as well. Don't let them get too sad." He pulled the children to him once more.

There was a chorus of assents around the room. Ashton nodded. With a pat on the back of each child, he slowly stood.

"There is a lot we all need to do before Sunday arrives. I've said my piece. Thank you for listening. Does anyone have any questions I can answer?"

One of the women Ashton had identified, Catherine, raised a hand. "The same chain of command and plan as last time, sir?"

"Yes," nodded Ashton. "Asami, Sebastian, yourself, and then according to the standard plan," he said, pointing to each person as he spoke.

"Yes, sir. Security status while you're away?"

"No change unless any of the three of you deem it necessary to change it."

"I want to go to Alpha," said Asami from her spot next to Vivia on the wraparound couch. "Just in case. We can always downgrade later."

Ashton turned his head to regard Asami for a brief moment. He nodded. "Alpha it is, then."

"Roger that," replied Catherine. Lehr wrote that in her notebook.

 _Wow! The cute little Japanese girl is more headstrong than she looks._

"Anything else?" asked Ashton.

Silence.

"Okay. Thank you everyone."

As everyone stood, a tall blond man took Ashton's arm and said softly, "We need to talk." The brigadier nodded and they walked toward the front door.

The two men had just gone outside when a shadow loomed over Lehr. Looking up, she saw the Japanese woman smiling at her.

"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. The small boy who had been sitting next to the brigadier also appeared and wrapped his arms around the woman's waist. "My name is Asami. I guess we should get acquainted if we're going to be working together for a while."

xxxxxxxxxx

"It's Afghanistan, isn't it?" inquired Sather.

"Sometimes I wonder if your Watcher network is better than my own intelligence, Sather," Ashton accused as they walked down the long driveway.

"At times, maybe it is."

"In short, yes, that's where we're going."

"Then so am I."

Ashton stopped walking and faced the Watcher. "You have no business in this fight, Sather. Stay out of it."

Sather put one hand on his hip, the other pointed outward. "Farid made it my business when he attacked my men."

"And your men are safe now," stated Ashton flatly.

"And how many more will die when he implements his bombing plan next year? Or whatever the hell it is he has planned after that? It's not just about my people, Ashton. It's about _all_ those people out there. I said it before. I would have told you about Farid and his plans even if my men hadn't been attacked. Now I'm adding to that. I want to help.

"You can have Farid for yourself. I don't care about that. I'll take Shinwari or any of the other sordid characters he has around him. I have to do something. I can't just sit behind a computer while other men are out there risking their lives. I have to do my part, as well."

Ashton took a step back and looked up at Sather, grinning silently. He shook his head. Turning his back on the taller man, he gazed at the twilight sky.

"Vivia won't like it."

Sather shrugged. "She's of a warrior race. She'll come to understand it."

"And the Watchers?"

"I'll take vacation days. I've got lots of it saved up. They can't say anything about what I do on my own time."

Ashton turned around again. He met Sather's eyes. "If you're serious about this, Devon, be here tomorrow at 04:30 ready for a fitness test. You will take it according to British army officer standards. You pass that and I'll let you go through the mobilization processing starting at NextGen at 09:00. You'll need to get all physical screenings, immunizations, equipment draws, and battle drills squared away in three days, just like everyone else. Be ready by 19:00 on Friday or you do not get on the plane at 07:00 on Sunday. If you make it through everything, you will take the position as my assistant at the rank of sergeant once we fly. Understood?"

Sather snapped to attention and delivered a crisp salute. "Yes, sir." There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Ashton returned the salute. "Dismissed," he said flatly. "And put in that vacation request." As he walked away, he called over his shoulder, "And leave me out of whatever fight you have with Vivia. That's between you and her."

xxxxxxxxxx

19 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Ashton was awake before the door opened. The sound of the door latch was not loud, even less so were the tiny feet on the carpeted floor preceding it. His eyes opened as his two children, clad in their usual shorts, entered the room. He glanced at the bedside clock. 07:18. He grinned. The little ones wanted to make the most of this day before he left, _Shabbat_ or not.

Without a word, they approached the bed. He rolled the covers back to allow them underneath. To his surprise, even Asami had awakened when they had entered. He felt her roll over and make room for them. He rolled from his right side to his back and scooted toward the center as the two children climbed into bed with them. Marc took a spot between them and Tally chose to be to his right, her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and she sighed contentedly. Marc rolled onto his side and pressed his entire body against Ashton, a tiny arm and leg sprawling across him. Maneuvering his left arm under the boy, he eventually worked it behind him and pulled the child close, as well. Asami rolled back into the group, adjusted the blankets, and put an arm across both Marc and Ashton. They were all asleep again in minutes.

Ashton awoke two hours later to a most peculiar sight. The blankets had been pushed mostly to the foot of the bed. Marc's left leg, which had been over Ashton's left, was still in place, but the rest of his little body was now bent backwards across Asami's stomach. His right arm was flung out, the tiny fingers curled right next to the woman's cheek, lightly brushing it as her chest rose with her breathing. Tally had somehow rolled on top of Ashton, her chin tucked onto his right shoulder, the rest of her lithe body strewn diagonally across the bed, her legs on her brother's chest. Her head was tilted slightly and most of her hair fell in the direction of the floor rather than into Ashton's face. Another glance showed him that Marc's left arm was curled atop her knees.

Ashton mentally inventoried his own body position. He seemed to have moved very little, except for his hands. His left hand was lightly grasping Asami's right arm and his right lay on Tally's bare back. Other than that, he seemed to have not moved at all during the tornado. He grinned. This would be a cute moment if someone were around to take a photo of it.

Asami was the next to wake up. Her head turned slowly toward Ashton as she realized her predicament. He smiled at her.

" _Kawaii,_ (Cute,)" she whispered.

" _Totemo kawaii,_ (Very cute,)" replied Ashton, squeezing her arm.

"But we're stuck," she added.

"Not for long." He rubbed his hand along Tally's back. "Come on, little girl. It's time to get up now."

"Hmmm?" Tally groaned and fidgeted. Her legs moved and one foot bumped into Marc's chin.

"Whah?" he said, squirming under her. Asami reached down and lifted Tally's legs off of Marc, making it safe for them both to move.

Ashton sat up, slowly swinging the girl along with him. She moaned happily and settled into his shoulder again. "No, no," he said. "Time to wake up now, Tally."

"What time is it?" she asked, rubbing her left eye.

"Almost nine thirty."

"Oh," she yawned as he stood, still happily in his arms.

Asami, sitting up now, gazed into Marc's eyes and smiled at him. "Good morning, little boy," she said, rubbing his chest and stomach with one hand and caressing his hair with the other. "Are you ready to get up?"

Yawning once, Marc's weariness seemed to evaporate with the continued affection. "I am now," he whispered, smiling back at her. "Can I have a nose nuzzle first?"

"Of course, you can," she laughed, taking a shoulder in each hand and lifting him up. She swung her legs out from under him and knelt on the bed. He now stood in front of her. She rubbed the tip of her nose on his, back and forth, giggling all the while. Marc giggled, too.

"Is that better," she asked him.

"Yeah," he grinned. "Much."

"Should we go get breakfast now?" She grinned broadly.

"Oh, yeah."

"But I'm missing something." She looked around the bedroom. "Something I have to have before I go downstairs."

"What? What is it?" He twisted back and forth, also looking for whatever the thing was.

Asami smiled again. Reaching out and grabbing him under the arms, she cried, "A little boy over my shoulder."

xxxxxxxxxx

Alyssa, Johnny, and Tristan were already downstairs. They were sitting at the much smaller kitchen table each munching on a bowl of baked cinnamon apples Terry had prepared the day before. Each of them also had a glass of a different fruit juices in front of them, as well. They were also in their usual casual weekend summer attire, which meant next to nothing; the boys wore only shorts while Alyssa was clad in shorts and a midriff-exposing camisole. Also as usual, no one said a thing about it. It was _Shabbat_ and everyone was expected to be comfortable in their own house. They typically only changed into attire other than their bedclothes if they were expecting company that day.

Ashton smiled at them as he entered the kitchen. They waved in return. Alyssa grinned at the sight of Tally, now asleep again in her daddy's arms. Ashton patted the girl's back and ran his fingers through her hair to wake her, accompanying the gesture with soft words in her ear. She raised her head slowly from his shoulder, blinking drowsily. She looked around the kitchen with weary confusion.

"Hey, baby girl," he greeted her with a grin.

"Hi, daddy," she replied, yawning.

"What would you like for breakfast, baked apples or frosted flakes?"

"Apples, please," she said, putting her head on his shoulder again.

"Okay," he said, almost in a whisper. "Go have a seat and I'll get it for you. Would you like orange juice with that?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay." He bent slowly and set her down on the floor. The girl wobbled slightly before waking enough to walk toward the table. She came alongside Alyssa and looked up at her, big blue eyes blinking without recognition briefly. Finally realizing who she saw, Tally leaned against Alyssa, slowly putting both arms around her waist. Alyssa put down her spoon and placed her hands on the nearly sleepwalking girl. One hand caressed her hair while the other rubbed her back softly.

"Hi, there, little girl. Are you still sleepy?" Tally nodded against her. "Aw, someone needs a wakeup ride."

She reached down and gently grasped the little girl under the arms, picking her up. At the same time, she slid out her chair with her legs. She set Tally in her lap, facing away from her. Tally leaned into her as if to go to sleep again. Alyssa slowly pushed her back into a sitting position.

"Nope. We're going for a ride."

Alyssa had Tally's legs straddled across her knees. She began bouncing her knees up and down. She held the girl's arms for support.

"Ooh, the horse is galloping and bouncing Tally up and down. Look at him go!"

It took only a few seconds of jostling up and down, then side to side, up and down, for Tally to wake up and get in the mood of the game. A smile spread across her lips and laughter erupted from her throat. The sound of her joy was all Alyssa needed to bounce her even faster. This made the girl laugh all the more.

Ashton, finished with his minor chore of portioning out food and juice for his daughter and himself, leaned on the kitchen counter to watch, a grin on his own face. The boys at the table were enjoying the show, as well, their own laughter adding to the ruckus. At the same time, Asami entered the kitchen, a giggling Marc across her shoulder. He twisted himself around to look at what was happening. Upon seeing his sister engaged in such fun, he immediately began to wiggle, the signal to be put down, and ran up to Alyssa.

"Can I be next?" he asked with an enormous grin, his hands pressing expectantly on her thigh.

"Of course," replied Alyssa. "Tally, you go have breakfast, okay?"

"Alright," said the girl, now fully awake. She hopped excitedly from Alyssa's lap and dashed to the counter to claim her food. She was instantly replaced by her little brother and the bouncing resumed. Asami joined Ashton at the counter and slipped an arm around his waist. He put his own around her shoulder as she claimed his glass of juice for herself. Together, they watched the merriment at the table.

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton devoted an hour of that day to each of the six of them. Some of them wanted to spend it walking the grounds; others wanted to play games; others wanted just to talk; he accommodated whatever they wished. For each of them, the hour passed too quickly; it was the same for Ashton.

That evening was for the entire family. There was no real plan for it other than being together. It became a long bout of seven-way conversation and children sitting in Ashton's lap as he relaxed on the larger couch. Asami was sitting next to him the entire time. It started with Marc and then Tally about twenty minutes later. To Ashton's surprise, Tristan even came over and cuddled up next to him, Asami making room for him, after Tally had relinquished her spot. He put one arm around the boy, the fingers of his other hand running through his hair. The conversation continued unabated.

After Tristan left, Alyssa approached. She looked at Asami questioningly. "You won't get too jealous if I act like a little girl with your man for a little while, will you, Asami?"

Asami grinned. "Well, you are, what, fifteen, in body?"

"Right, and teenagers like laps just like smaller children. Just look at Johnny." She smiled coyly.

"Okay," said Asami. "I'll allow it. Just don't get too handsy." She grinned lightheartedly.

Alyssa laughed at the comment. "Don't worry. I'm already taken anyway and I know my limits. Besides," she said, taking her place in Ashton's lap and putting his arm around her waist, "there's no way I'd want to fight an angry Asami for possession of him. You'd kick my butt."

"And her butt is way too cute to be kicked," interjected Johnny from the living room floor, a snoozing Tally's head on one leg and Marc's on the other.

Asami giggled. "I don't know about that. I don't spend my time looking at it."

"Don't worry. I'll do it for you," Johnny assured her.

"Thank you, Johnny," said Asami. "You're such a dear." She then eyed him with a touch of suspicion. "Do you look at me that way, too?"

"Only when you're not looking," he replied with a mischievous grin.

With her own grin, Asami responded, "I'd throw something at you if it wouldn't wake the children."

"That would just excite him," said Alyssa. "He's mine anyway. Don't go taking _my_ man, Asami."

"I'd like to see it," replied Johnny. "Two hot women in a wrestling match would be awesome."

"What? Like Ultimate Surrender?" asked Alyssa.

"Yeah," said Johnny. "Just like that."

"What's that?" asked Tristan.

"Somehow," said Ashton, "I think we don't want to know."

"It's right up Johnny's alley," replied Alyssa. "Two beautiful women, typically porn stars, wrestle each other, and the winner gets to, well, have her way with the loser."

Asami's jaw dropped. Her head turned from Alyssa to Johnny and back. Johnny glanced at Tristan. He was doing the same. Johnny burst out laughing, pointing at both of them.

"Look," he said. "They're speechless."

"I'm shocked is what I am," blurted Asami.

Johnny grinned at her. He turned his eyes to Alyssa.

"It's my turn now. Would you help me move the kids, please?"

Both Alyssa and Tristan helped him carefully move the sleeping children. After a while, each head had been shifted to a different lap and Johnny was free. He leapt up and made his way to the couch. Asami regarded him with a halfway playful scowl.

"And what makes you think I'll let you anywhere near me after the comments you made, little man?"

Johnny stood with his arms akimbo, smirking at her. "You'll let Alyssa continue to sit here after she participates in the game but eschew me? What kind of favoritism is this? Besides, the women on that show start the competition in bikinis. I know for a fact the two of you are smoking hot in bikinis." His smirk became a full-mouthed grin.

Despite herself, Asami laughed. She still hit Johnny in the leg with a pillow. Giggling, Johnny acted as if the pillow knocked him over and fell onto the couch next to Asami. He took advantage of his proximity to her to reach over and tickle her side and abdomen with both hands. Her back arched as she tried to avoid the assault, the sound of her mirth filling the room. She rolled to the left to prevent him from tickling her stomach anymore. She held the pillow to herself for protection. Johnny scooted forward, digging under the cushion with his fingers, now running fingertips along both sides of her ribcage. He then moved up to catch her under the arms. She curled into a fetal ball to protect herself, laughing all the while.

Johnny stopped to let Asami breathe. He sat back on his haunches, satisfied with his work. He took a glance behind him and then eased himself back into Ashton's lap, happily accepting the arms around his waist and arms. He smiled contentedly as Asami slowly uncoiled herself. She checked behind herself cautiously, seeing she was safe for the moment. She turned to face the boy, still panting for breath.

Asami's eyes ran the length of Johnny's body, analyzing him. Gradually, a smile formed on her face. She glanced away from him briefly, making eye contact with Ashton, then with Johnny again.

"My turn," she declared.

Asami pounced on Johnny's outflung legs, pinning his feet to the cushions. At the same time, Ashton tightened his arms around the boy. Asami launched her own attack on the undersides of Johnny's feet causing the boy to flail about as much as his pinioned body would allow.

"Hey, no fair," he stammered out between his bouts of laughter.

"You set yourself up for this one, little one," Ashton said into his ear, squeezing him a little tighter in what could have either been a hug or more of a pin. Asami continued to tickle Johnny's feet. His laughter was so loud that Marc and Tally raised their heads from their respective laps to see what was happening.

Asami was eventually satisfied with her revenge and allowed Johnny to recover in Ashton's lap for several minutes. Their conversation resumed as if no insult had ever occurred at all. At one point, Alyssa began to giggle.

"What is it?" asked Tristan.

"Well, we've all been sitting in David's lap, right?"

"Yeah."

"What was it you called it on the bus when you were with those coeds? Musical laps?"

"Oh, yeah," replied Tristan with a grin.

"I just thought, all we're missing is the music and that's what we've got. That also means it's Asami's turn."

"Yeah," said Johnny, standing up. "Come on. Come sit in David's lap before he runs to the other side of the world." He took the woman's hand and pulled her up. She resisted at first but then, with a smirk, relented.

"Okay, little man," she said, putting both hands on his shoulders. "You think I won't sit in his lap? You think I'm too prim and proper for that?"

Johnny grinned at her. "I know better. You're cute and demure when you want to be, but if you were prim and proper all the time then David wouldn't have you, would he?"

"That's right," she affirmed, flopping into Ashton's lap.

"Oof!" he exclaimed. Everyone sitting on the floor giggled at his reaction.

"That's better," Johnny commented. "Now everyone's had a turn."

xxxxxxxxxx

Two hours later, everyone had grown weary and gone to bed. Ashton shut the door to his bedroom. He turned to face Asami. To his surprise, she was not already sitting in bed as she normally was. She was standing next to him.

"It's been a good day," he said, smiling.

"I'm not ready for it to end," she declared.

"Well, I'm not, either, but it must sometime," he responded.

Asami's expression was defiant. She looked him in the eye with determination.

"But not yet. Tomorrow, you belong to NextGen; tonight, you're all mine."

xxxxxxxxxx

11 May 1974

Wildwood, South Carolina

The boys had not been able to travel far before the ravages of withdrawal set upon them full force. It started for Penance only hours after leaving the house, the itching and weak limbs that he had noticed in Tristan from the start. By daylight, they had to stop to rest. Only sheer will pushed them onward for a few days despite the pains they felt, but each passing day was an increasing struggle. By the ninth when they reached Wildwood, they could go no farther. Penance dragged Tristan into an alley and laid him behind a dumpster to sleep. He then passed out himself. Neither woke for two days.

Penance awoke to find Tristan shaking next to him. With great effort, he sat up and opened his eyes. He scratched at the horrible itch all over his body as he shook Tristan by the shoulder.

"Hey, Tristan, wake up," he mumbled.

"Huh?" muttered the boy, his eyes opening slightly. His trembling did not abate. "Where are we?"

"I don't know. Somewhere north of Charleston."

"I'm freezing," declared Tristran.

"Yeah, me, too," admitted Penance, lying down again and pressing himself against Tristan for warmth. "Does that help?"

"A bit. Thanks."

"No problem. You hungry?" he asked, feeling the shakes starting within his own tiny frame.

"Kinda, but I don't know if I could keep anything down right now. Feeling kinda nauseous, you know?"

"Yeah, but we've gotta eat. You've got a blanket in your pack, right?"

"Uhm, a poncho liner, I think."

"That'll work." Penance sat up again and pulled Tristan's backpack toward him. Digging inside it, he easily found the woodland-patterned poncho liner at the bottom. It would make for a fine lightweight blanket. He wrapped it around the small boy.

"There you go," he said soothingly. "You stay there, okay? I'll go find us something to eat. It might not be the best stuff, but it will be something. Try to go back to sleep."

"Okay," Tristan whispered, closing his eyes. Still shaking, he was asleep again in seconds.

Penance crawled over to the dumpster and used it to aid him in standing. Running his tongue over his inflamed gums, he winced as he started walking. The inquisitive muscle wanted to inspect the sensitive area again. He prevented it with effort and ran his hand over his arms instead. Glancing at his watch and the sun overhead, he knew the chills he felt were not the fault of the outside temperature.

"Fucking skag," he muttered as his feet scuffed the pavement. "You brought this on yourself." In a rare moment of frustration, he even called himself by his real name as he scolded himself. "A fine example you are to your friend, eh? Just as drug addled and helpless as he is and if you don't get your ass moving faster, you're going to be just like he is and you'll both be up the creek."

His nose still worked for the moment, at least. The respiratory problems he knew were coming had not hit him yet. He soon found himself behind a buffet restaurant that had recently cleared its trays for new offerings for its customers. At the top of the mess of refuse was a pile of fried chicken and dinner rolls.

"Jackpot," Penance whispered to himself. Now he needed a container for his loot.

Looking about, he saw another dumpster nearby and scurried over to it. Lifting himself up to peer over the side, he grinned instantly. There were several things inside it which would do nicely. He straightened his arms, with difficulty, he noticed, and looped a leg over the side. He was in.

There were numerous small cardboard boxes as well as plastic garbage bags in the dumpster. Penance selected an empty box and folded its flaps to the outside. He then chose a bag without holes and walked to the opposite side of the dumpster. Upending the bag, he poured all of the few items within it onto the metal floor. He bit his lower lip for a second, thinking, and then dropped the bag. Removing his shirt, he took hold of the inside of its material and then reached inside the bag, grasping the bottom of it with the outside of the shirt. He then pulled the bag inside out.

Donning his slightly soiled shirt again, Penance returned to the box and placed the bag inside it, carefully folding it over the sides. Biting his lip once more, he checked his work. He nodded. It would do. He glanced over the side of the dumpster. There was no one out there. He dropped the box over the side.

Getting out of the giant metal box was more difficult than getting into it. Whether it was due to angles within the dumpster or the boy's decreasing strength, Penance did not know, but he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat when he finally landed on all fours next to his hard-won container. With a huff, he picked up his box and went over to the trash can and began filling it as quickly as he could. When he thought he could get no more into it, he folded the plastic over the food and then the cardboard flaps over that. Finally, he stood with his prize.

Penance found Tristan still sleeping when he returned to the alleyway and set the box of food next to him. Sitting down to rest and rubbing the gooseflesh on his arms again, Penance considered this briefly, feeling the fog settle into his own mind as he did so. The sensation of another Immortal's presence should have awoken the boy. The fact that it had not was disconcerting.

"Oh, shit," whispered Penance as the truth came to him.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Tristan awoke, it was night and he was still freezing. He groaned softly and stretched his limbs. Most of them. For some reason, his left leg wouldn't move. Confused, he used his arms to push himself up, shoving the poncho liner off his body as he did so. He reached down to feel his legs, wondering if they were still there. Yes, they were both still attached. He wiggled his toes. Only those on his right responded. He frowned.

Tristan leaned forward with a soft groan, running his hands along his left leg and trying to massage it into obeying his brain's commands again. He could feel the limb beneath his fingers but and the pressure he was exerting on the leg was obvious, but he could not move it at all. Not knowing what else to do, he continued manipulating the leg with his hands. After several minutes, he bent further down and pulled his foot up to him, repeating the same with his foot and toes. He didn't know how long he had been rubbing his leg and foot - it seemed an eternity - but a sluggish ability to move it finally returned to the limb.

"Hey, Penance," he whispered. "I can move my foot now."

No response. Tristan's frown grew. He could hear his friend's light breathing, even that trace of a snore from his bent nose, nothing else.

"Hey, Penance, wake up," he said a little louder, reaching over to shake him. Still nothing.

Fighting against his chills and the insane weakness he felt, Tristan tapped lightly around himself, searching for his backpack. He found it seconds later and reached inside, quickly finding the crookneck flashlight he kept there. Clicking it on as he wiped sweat from his brow, he swept the light around toward Penance. The boy was fast asleep. Tristan gasped. Penance's face looked awful. Hideous pustules were visible all over it. Tristan shook him again. Still nothing.

Standing painfully, his leg finally responding, Tristan picked up the poncho liner and wrapped it around his slim shoulders. He stepped over Penance and made his way toward the end of the alley in search of a place to urinate. He felt like he was about to burst. As he tread around the debris, a few items caught his eye. A cardboard box lined with a garbage bag containing dozens of chicken bones and a few old rolls - bugs crawling all over them - and three empty fifths of whiskey and three more full ones were the most notable of them. Finding a spot at the end of the alley with a small hole, Tristan hooked his flashlight on the flap of his pocket and took care of his more immediate needs. The hole served as a viable target.

On his way back, Tristan wondered what had happened to Penance while he had been sleeping. As he neared the boy, he noticed something else of interest near Penance's head, a small notebook and a pen. Settling back into the spot where he had been resting, he pulled the pad to him. There was a note addressed to him.

Tristan,

You were asleep when I got back with food and I couldn't wake you up. After a while, I realized you were in a coma. That was on the eleventh. I wasn't able to feed you so I stole some whiskey and I've been giving you small sips of that so you don't starve. I've also been trying to keep you warm. The next day, you also ended up getting some kind of cold, started coughing a lot, and got these pus-filled things on your face. It was pretty bad. By the fourth day, it was all gone and you were just shivering again. Your color was looking better so I'm hoping you'll wake up soon.

You stopped using heroin a few days before I did so I know the same thing is going to happen to me soon. I'm feeling pretty bad right now. That depression you mentioned while we were walking has hit me really hard. I've also been sleeping more and more and feeling weaker so I'm sure the coma won't be long in coming. It might actually be a good thing.

If you wake up and find this, please do your best to feed me the whiskey to keep me in calories. About two-thirds of a bottle a day should do it, if you can. You'll have to find something else for yourself. I ate all the solid food already. Sorry.

I hope this note finds you in a better state than I am in right now. Get better, my friend. I will see you soon, I hope.

Penance

15 May 1974

Tristan turned the light to his watchface. It was two twenty-nine of the seventeenth of May. At worst, Penance had been unconscious for almost a day and a half. Nodding to himself, Tristan stood again and approached the remains of the food and liquor stash. He knelt by the bottles and eyed them for a moment before picking up the three full bottles and walking the ten meters back to where Penance lay. Kneeling again, he carefully set the bottles on the other side of his own sleeping area.

Curling up in his little nest again, Tristan stood his flashlight next to him, the beam angled toward the alley wall closest to him. He picked up the closest bottle of whiskey and twisted off the cap. With a glance at Penance, he placed the mouth of the bottle to the cap and slowly filled it, being careful not to spill any of it. He set the bottle aside and extended his hand to the boy's lips. He lightly brushed sweat-soaked locks of hair from the sleeping boy's forehead as he did so. Gently tipping the cap, he poured the small amount of the beverage into Penance's mouth.

"Come on, buddy," he whispered. "Just a sip. Swallow this, if you can."

Penance's body, already small and now more so after so long without proper nutrition, convulsed with the shock of the burning liquid in his throat. He gasped involuntarily and swallowed. He coughed twice before settling down again. He still did not wake. With even more care, Tristan fed him two more capfuls. Penance received them with less resistance. By the third capful, he swallowed and licked his lips before giving a soft moan and turning onto his side.

Tristan decided that was enough for now. He noticed his friend did not have a blanket over him. Furrowing his brow, he wondered if Penance had one at all. He couldn't remember. Searching around with his flashlight, he saw another poncho liner folded at Penance's feet, forgotten. Tristan shook his head. He had seen that liner countless times over the last year. How could he have forgotten it? Reaching down, he pulled it over Penance and tucked it around him. He then lay back under his own liner, scooting closer to Penance as he did so.

"Okay, Penance," he said, the tremors still shaking his body. "I'm going back to sleep now. When I wake up then, as much as possible, I'm going to take care of you just like you did for me. Get better for me, okay?"

xxxxxxxxxx

Tristan awoke hours later and sat up with a groan. It was daylight, at least, and he did not feel as cold as he had earlier in the morning. Scratching his arm and yawning, he glanced at the crease of his elbow. The needle tracks that had seemingly healed so quickly when he had shot up weeks ago but had stubbornly abscessed with his last few hits last week had now healed completely. Small blessing. He turned his gaze over to Penance. The boy had rolled onto his back again and had shivered out of the covering of his poncho liner. Tristan reached over to him and tucked the liner back around him once more.

Feeling a rumbling in his stomach reminded him of the need to feed Penance. He reached for the bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the bottle. With gentle patience, he pour measured capfuls into the sleeping boy's mouth. Penance began to cough after the fifth and Tristan decided to stop. He eyed the bottle for a moment. With a shrug, the brought the bottle to his own lips and took a mouthful for himself. The liquid burned his inflamed gums and he nearly gagged in surprise. He then replaced the cap and set it aside. After another moment's thought, he placed all three bottles inside Penance's backpack and zipped it up.

Tristan folded his poncho liner and set it under his own pack. He then stood and stretched his aching limbs. His stomach growled again. He needed food. He glanced at Penance again. He didn't like the idea of leaving him alone, but he didn't have any other choice. He looked up the alley and blinked. Even with his lessened faculties, he could tell the two of them were well concealed from passersby by the dumpster. That would help, at least. Placing a hand on the dumpster for balance, he took a step around Penance. He stopped and looked back. After two blinks to clear his head, he reached down and picked up his backpack. More reassured now as he slung the pack over his shoulder, he set off on his search for food.

He passed three restaurants that looked worthy of checking out. None of them had recently thrown out anything that was suitable for him to take back, though. He did find a clean biscuit lying amongst some of the refuse and nibbled on that as he continued to walk. After several more minutes of walking, he found himself in front of a grocery store. Tristan put the last bit of biscuit in his mouth and reached for his wallet. Looking inside it, he saw he only had four dollars to his name.

 _That's what I had when I first got to Charleston. I really didn't get any better by staying at that house with Will and the others._

Putting his wallet back in his pocket, Tristan eyed the signs on the store's front windows. The sign announcing a sale on extra virgin olive oil caught his attention. He stood there in the parking lot for a full minute wondering why it seemed so important to him. There was something about it, something big, but his mind was too clouded for it to come to him right now. Clenching his fists in frustration, he walked inside the store.

He walked through the store for a few minutes, letting his mind wander, before coming to the aisle with the olive oil. He stared at it, more of a glare, actually, as if willing the bottle to tell him what it was supposed to mean to him. Strangely, it did just that. A grin spread across his face. Suppressing the giggle that threatened to burst from his throat, Tristan looked up and down the aisle. No one else was there. He lowered his pack from his shoulder, unzipped the top, and slipped the bottle of oil into it. Now he needed two more things. With effort, he kept his pace casual as he continued his trek through the store.

He stopped at the candy section, eyeing it like a child should while waiting for three women to clear away from the items he really wanted. Eight agonizing minutes later, they were gone and he slipped over to the spices. He looked over the shelves quickly and soon found what he sought. Oregano and thyme joined the bottle of oil in the pack.

Zipping up the pack fully and putting it back over his shoulder, Tristan strolled to the front of the store. He stopped near the checkout register. There was a small glass-fronted refrigerator full of bottled sodas. He opened it and pulled out two Coca-Colas from inside. Stepping up to the register, he took out his wallet and prepared to sacrifice a precious thirty-two cents for the drinks. The teenage girl at the register smiled at him as he handed her a dollar.

"Did you find everything you needed?" she asked.

"Yes, I did. Thank you," he replied with his own grin.

She gave him his change and asked him if he wanted his drinks opened now. He had her open one now and said he'd have the other one later. Thanking her again, he exited the store, a bottle in each hand. He sipped on the open bottle and waited until he was out of sight of the front window before stopping to deposit the other in his pack. Now that he had his absconded items and a nice beverage, he could continue looking for food.

The smell of fried chicken drew him to the back of a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant only seconds after he had finished the soda. To his despair, everything he found was buried under so much other garbage that he decided not to take it. Tristan sighed and placed his empty bottle atop the refuse before replacing the lid. He glanced at the nearby dumpster and shook his head. In his current state, he did not think he had the strength to climb in and out of it. He would have to move on. His mouth watering from the aromas emanating from the building in front of him, he shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

Tristan took one step and froze. His nose was scant centimeters from the shirt of another person. Looking up slowly, he took in the face of a confused teenager, a bag of trash in his right hand and a rectangular paper hat on his head.

"Uhm, excuse me, sir," Tristan began. "I didn't see you there."

"I could see that, little guy," replied the teen, eyeing him with bemusement. "And just why were you digging through our trash can just now?"

Tristan shrugged again, his eyes returning to the can. His brain rattled in an effort to come up with a believable cover story but only sputtered and halted. He looked up at the teen once more, spreading his right arm, the one not holding his pack, slightly.

"I was hungry, sir. I haven't eaten in several days. I thought I could find something in there. I didn't."

The teen walked around him and slung the garbage bag into the dumpster before turning to face Tristan again. With his own shrug, he asked, "Why don't you just come on inside and buy some food?"

"'Cause I only have three dollars in my wallet. I have to save it in case I have need of it for more important reasons. I can't go spending it on one meal. Besides, I have a sick friend nearby who needs food, too. That's why I'm carrying my backpack. I wanted to carry some back for him, too."

"That's a good point," answered the teen, concern crossing his features. "Where is this sick friend of yours?"

"About two hours away by foot," replied Tristan.

"You've been walking for two hours?"

"More than that. I've been out all afternoon. He's just that far away."

The teen looked at his watch. "Look," he said. "My shift ends in twenty minutes. How about I put together a box of food for the two of you, my treat, and then drive you back to where he is? Would that be okay?"

Tristan thought about the offer. He looked directly into the teen's eyes when he responded. "I know you want to help," he stated, "but I can only accept if you drop me off short of our location and let me walk the rest of the way. We're orphans and on the run from some sick people. If anyone in the area finds out where we are, things will end badly for us."

"Sick people, you say?"

A flash came to Tristan and he added a bit of embellishment to the truth. For all he knew, it may have been true, as well.

"Yeah, child porn producers in Charleston connected to the Mafia. We left there a few days ago. If they find out where we are - and we know they have connections out here - they'll kill us both. They already killed one girl who tried to leave a week ago."

"Shit!" declared the teen. "No wonder you're so security conscious. Okay, I accept your terms, but let me add one proviso. When I drop you off, let me give you my home phone number. Once your friend is well, call me when I'm off work and we can arrange a time and place to meet. I'll drive the two of you two or three hours in whatever direction you want out of the city. How's that?"

Tristan grinned. He extended his hand. "Deal. I'm Tristan, by the way."

The teen took his hand. "I'm Brad. Brad Miller."

xxxxxxxxxx

True to his word, Brad returned to the rear of the building half an hour later. He looked about the area in confusion at first when he didn't see Tristan. Seconds later, he smiled when Tristan stepped out from his hiding place. Remembering the boy's security concerns from earlier, he nodded.

"Ready to go?" he asked, grinning.

"I sure am," admitted Tristan, hefting his pack.

They walked around the building to the front parking lot. Brad indicated a green Ford Pinto and opened the driver's side.

"The other door's unlocked," he said.

Tristan nodded and opened the other door. He noticed two take out boxes of food in the passenger floorboard. Without a word, he chucked his pack over into the back seat and immediately climbed over the seat after it.

"Why'd you do that?" asked Brad, fastening his seat belt.

"In case I have to duck down and hide," he replied, smiling. Brad nodded in his rearview mirror. What he didn't see was Tristan pulling his backpack into his lap and taking hold of his bayonet in its specialized grip.

They drove a moment in silence before Tristan got himself oriented and began giving Brad directions. At one point, Brad slammed on his brakes when a dog ran across the road. Tristan tightened his grip on his bayonet but did not draw it from its scabbard. Two minutes later, they took a slight detour around a bit of roadwork. Only a few minutes of driving brought them to a spot that Tristan decided was close enough.

"This is good," he concluded. "You can pull over here." Brad did so. "Would you mind getting out of the car, please, Brad?"

"Why is that?"

"Just humor me, please. Maybe act like you're just stretching or something and look around."

"Okay. I can do that."

Tristan hopped over the seats once Brad was outside of the vehicle and got out of the other side. Once he stood on the sidewalk, Brad grinned at him.

"Security again?" he asked.

Tristan smiled at him. "Yeah," he admitted. "Sorry."

"No problem." Indicating the food inside, he said, "My number is on the inside of one of those boxes. I'm off work after ten on weeknights and all day on Sundays. You can call me on weekdays between four and six and between one and ten on Sundays. Today was different because I changed shifts with a friend. All of that is written on the box, too. Just call when your friend is feeling better and we'll work something out, alright?"

"Will do, Brad. Thank you very much."

"My pleasure," said Brad as Tristan retrieved the food. "You two take care. I hope I hear from you soon."

xxxxxxxxxx

Penance woke with an oily, but pleasant taste in his mouth. Something was touching his lower lip. Sluggishly, he brought his hand up to brush it away, whatever it was, and opened his eyes with great effort.

"Oh, you're finally awake," he heard a happy voice declare.

Penance's weary orbs rotated to take in the sight of Tristan sitting next to him. The boy held a whiskey bottle in his hands. It did not contain whiskey, though. Instead, it held a cloudy substance mixed with some sort of green, leafy matter. Penance eyed it suspiciously.

"What's that?" he asked hoarsely.

"Essential oil of oregano," replied Tristan, grinning. He pointed at a nearby capped whiskey bottle. "That one is essential oil of thyme. I brewed them while you were sleeping."

Penance looked up at his friend in surprise, only now realizing both of them were several meters further back in the alley then they had originally been.

"How did you do that? And why are we back here now?"

Tristan smiled again. "I took some olive oil, thyme, and oregano from a nearby store a few days ago and mixed them in the empty bottles you had left. I then climbed up that ladder over there," he pointed at the ladder on the building by the dumpster," and left them on the room to warm up in the sun. By the third day, they were good and ready. These are good natural remedies for the respiratory ailments we had. I've been giving you some of it and taking some myself ever since.

"As for why we're back here, I figured someone would come to collect the contents of the dumpster eventually so I dragged you back here and stacked these boxes in front of us to conceal us. Good thing, too. A truck came by that same night and emptied the dumpster."

"Wow!" exclaimed Penance. "You've been busy the whole time I've been out."

"Well, there was still a lot of sitting around, sleeping, and just waiting, but it did help pass some time, yeah. How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad, I guess. Still achy, itchy, and cold. Still feel like there's a lot of crud in my lungs. I guess I'm not back to full healing potential yet. Maybe I should drink some more of that stuff."

Tristan handed him the bottle. "You look better, at least. All the pustules are gone and you stopped most of the coughing a day ago or so. I'm afraid I ate all the food I brought here a few days ago. There's still half a bottle of whiskey so I suppose we can split that until it gets darker and then go look for something."

"Good. I'm famished."

"Do you think you might be able to travel tomorrow?"

Penance twisted himself around to the right, cracking his spine, and then repeated the motion to the left.

"I suppose I could. Why do you ask?"

"'Cause I've found someone who is willing to drive us a few hours out of the city. All we have to do is give him a call."


	23. You're Gonna Lose That Smile

Author's Note: In 2004, Forward Operations Base (sometimes simply called "Camp") Wright was occupied by 3rd Battalion, 3rd Marines, known as Task Force Trinity. I have changed this to an Army battalion.

In 2008, the practice of using the Afghan National Army (ANA) as the primary face in a mission became required. This and many other operational changes were the results of orders made by then commander of NATO operations in Afghanistan, General Stanley A. McChrystal. In 2004, however, it was a rare tactic.

"If you think that I don't know about the little tricks you've played  
And never see you when deliberately you put things in my way

Well, here's a poke at you  
You're gonna choke on it too"

"I Can See for Miles" - Peter Townshend

21 June 2004

Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan

It was 01:49 local time when Brigadier David Ashton descended the staircase from the British Aerospace 146 jet at Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan. Behind him followed the two weary team leaders of teams three and four of Alpha Company, Sergeant Major Darren Dublin, the newly reinstated Sergeant Devon Sather, the members of teams three and four, and the two sniper teams. A small section of NextGen support personnel also waited to deplane. Being on an airfield, none of them wore headgear.

At the bottom of the staircase, an American captain and two sergeants awaited the teams. A small bus that looked like a golf cart on steroids was parked nearby. The captain saluted Ashton crisply. Ashton returned the salute. Reading the man's name tag, he greeted the man.

"Captain Wallace, thank you for meeting us." Ashton stepped out of the way so his men could continue deplaning.

"Yes, sir. Welcome to Bagram, Brigadier," replied the captain.

"Would you be so kind as to find a place for my men to rest for a while? They're quite tired after their journey."

"Yes, sir. That won't be a problem." Captain Wallace gestured to one of the sergeants. "Sergeant First Class Perkins will take them to the transient quarters so they can bed down." The sergeant nodded and began leading the men to the bus.

"I'd also like our equipment unloaded from the plane and brought to us after we have had our rest."

"Would noon be acceptable, sir?" asked the other sergeant.

"That is fine, Sergeant Maxwell. Thank you. Are you also the man to whom I should direct transportation questions?"

"Yes, sir."

Smiling, the captain stepped aside and let the sergeant take over. Ashton continued.

"We will need transport to the Korengal Outpost along with our gear as soon as it can be arranged. Most of the gear is personal weapons and equipment so it will be on our persons by the time we roll out. We can also assist with driving, gunners' duties, et cetera."

"Yes, sir. Are you men familiar with the HMMWV?"

"Most of them have driven one in the past. A little bit of refresher training is never a bad idea, though, if it would make you more comfortable." Ashton raised a finger. "I would like to insure that they are completely familiar with your radio sets and radio procedures, just in case that is necessary. Can that be arranged?"

Sergeant Maxwell looked to Captain Wallace for confirmation. The captain nodded.

"We should be able to do that, sir. We might have to delay the convoy for a day to allow time for the driver and commo training, if we're going to do it right, that is."

"That's fine with me. Doing it right saves lives. Would you two please initiate that for us?"

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I believe that is enough for one evening. Now, if you will excuse me, I will join my men and get some rest."

"One more thing, sir," interjected Captain Wallace. "Brigadier General Merritt, the commander of Bagram Airfield, likes to meet with all flag officers who pass through here." Wallace referred to a clipboard in his hand. "Would you be able to spare a few minutes with him at 14:00 this afternoon?"

"Certainly. That also reminds me, would you be able to have someone available to show us where we could all freshen up and have a meal after we've rested?"

"Yes, sir. We can do that when we drop off your equipment."

"Excellent. Thanks again, gentlemen."

"Yes, sir," said Captain Wallace, saluting again.

Ashton returned it and walked toward the bus. With a great force of will, he suppressed a yawn. To an onlooker, it may have looked like he was only gritting his teeth in thought.

xxxxxxxxxx

21 June 2004

Hereford, England

The Nightmare Pub

"Don't worry, Andrea. I'll lock up."

"Thanks, Ray. I'm beat. Will you lock up the till until the morning? I'll take it to the bank tomorrow. I'm just too tired right now."

"No problem. You get home and go to bed," said Ray with a smile.

"Thanks again. Good night."

Raven rotated the locking mechanism on the door as the manager left, the grin still on her lips. She liked Andrea, liked her easy going manner, and especially her light handed supervisory habits. Ray turned back to face the bar as she heard Andrea's car start up. Just a few more things to do.

She started by wiping down the few remaining tables and stacking the chairs atop them. Easy enough. Next came the bar itself and the stools in front of them. Done. Count the register and the receipts, put a note in the bag with the total, and lock it in the safe. Done. Okay. What else? Nothing. She was finished. She checked the wall clock. Just in time.

There was a light tapping at the front door. Raven grinned. It could only be one person. She walked over to the door, her gait only somewhat uneven thanks to her braces. A petite blonde woman awaited her arrival. Ray unlocked the door.

"Paula! You actually came."

"How could I not," answered the woman, smiling herself. "You offered beer and goodies. And other late night fun."

Raven laughed at her reminder. "Right. Come on over to the bar and grab a stool. I'll show you what I've got."

Paula strolled inside, letting Ray lock the door behind her. The two of them made their way to the bar. Ray went behind it and went straight to the taps.

"What'll you have?" she asked.

"Oh, let's start with something light, like a crisp cider."

"Done." Ray selected two glasses and turned to pull the levers. Paula took down a stool and sat.

"So," the German woman queried, "to what do I own this late calling?"

"Well, first of all, I thought, with all your working late, you needed a little fun. And secondly, I wanted to show you something."

"Oh?"

Ray turned and set one of the glasses in front of Paula. The other she lifted to her own lips. She drank deeply. When half the cider was gone, she placed the glass on the bar and reached beneath it. She held up her handbag. Paula looked at her questioningly. Ray grinned again and set the bag lightly on the counter. Opening it, she pointed inside.

"That," she said, indicating a plastic bag full of fine white powder, "makes the stuff we had at the Savoy seem like fish scales. I thought you'd like to try it with me. This is half a kilo of pure candy."

Paula's eyes lit up. "Well, you certainly have my attention now. I'm surprised you didn't invite Johnny to this little party, too."

Ray waved a diminutive hand. "Sometimes girls need a little time for themselves."

"How true that is," agreed Paula. Smiling again, she added, "I just happen to have some new fifty-pound notes in my purse. We can use those if you want to lay out a few lines."

"Can do," said Ray, draining her glass. She reached inside her handbag and carefully extracted the plastic bag, set it on the bar, and opened it. She accepted a note from Paula and used it as a scoop, laying out the contents along the wooden countertop.

"I can't believe you left half a kilo of cocaine just sitting in your handbag all day, Raven," commented Paula, shaking her head.

Ray laughed as she divided up the lines. "It's no big deal. No one touches personal belongings here. It's a complete honor system. Andrea said the last time someone violated it was four years ago and she was sacked instantly."

"Ooh, "sacked." You're starting to sound more and more British by the day."

"Heh, I can't help it. You stay here long enough and it just happens."

"So, there's no need to take a razor to this stuff before we have at it?"

"Nope. It's already as fine as talcum powder. Maybe more so. We can enjoy it right now."

Paula handed her a fifty-pound note. "In that case, let's have some fun."

With a devilish grin, Ray rolled the note into a tube. Inserting one end into a nostril, she pressed a finger to the other nostril, and leaned over to the first line of cocaine. She inhaled deeply, moving down the white line of powder. Finished, she rose with a sigh, a contented smile spreading across her face.

"Oh, man, that is good."

"Let's see if I agree with you," challenged Paula, leaning down for her own line. A moment later, she pushed herself up with her other hand, her features aglow. "Oh, you are so right." After half an hour of conversation and two more beers, she asked, "Can we have some more?"

"Sure," agreed Ray, reaching for the bag again. Paula took the opportunity to finish off the remainder of her cider in the meantime, her head tilting slowly back. Sighing softly, she set the glass on the bar and glanced down at the pile of white powder in front of her.

"That's a bit much, isn't it? Even for both of us?"

"Nah, we'll be fine. Want another beer?"

"Yes, please." Pushing her glass forward with a grin, Paula said, "A stout this time, if you would, barkeep."

"On the way." Ray turned to fill her friend's request. "Here you go."

"Thank you."

"And now, I have to stagger over to the ladies room."

"After only three beers?" laughed Paula. "Is your bladder the size of a lentil?"

Ray blushed. "I've actually been sneaking drinks all night. Excuse me."

"Well, don't be surprised if I help myself to some of this coke while you're gone."

"Go ahead. Just add more to it before I get back."

"No problem."

Ray returned a few minutes later to find Paula glowing and twitching.

"Wow! How much did you have?"

"A lot," the woman admitted. "I did feel a bit guilty about it, since this is your side gig, so I put five hundred pounds in your bag to cover the cost. I hope that's enough. I can give you more if it's not."

Ray looked at the remaining contents of the bag and did some rudimentary mental math. While numbers were not her strongest skill, she could get by well enough for this purpose. She shrugged.

"No, we're good, I think. I can even throw in splitting what's still on the table."

"Goodie!" said Paula. She picked up her glass and held it aloft. " _Prost!_ (Cheers!)"

Ray lifted her own glass. "Cheers!" They drank. Then they divided up the sizeable pile of white powder. Six ten centimeter (4 inch) lines lay before them when they were finished.

"Oh, wow!" exclaimed Ray. "This is going to be fun."

"Speed snort?" asked Paula.

"Why not? Let's go."

Ray leaned in first, taking a line as fast as she could. Paula then went in for her turn. They alternated until no powder remained. Both women wobbled unsteadily, holding the bar for balance.

"Was it just me or were those lines not as fine as the first few?" asked Ray. "Like they were courser?"

Paula looked at her uncertainly. "I didn't notice anything. Probably just your nostrils getting cut up by the powder. It happens no matter how fine it is. I guess I wouldn't notice because of my healing factor."

"Oh, right. Do you want some more?"

"Oh, no. I think we've both had quite enough. Let's just finish our drinks and go home." Ray nodded. Their conversation lasted another hour before Paula finally looked at Ray appraisingly. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep tonight?"

"After all this coke? Probably not. I'll likely crash after the workout in the morning, though. Crash hard. Then I'll wake up just in time for my shift tomorrow, take another hit to get going, and then I can sell the rest of this to make up for what I used for myself."

"Sounds like a plan, then." Paula raised her glass to her lips and finished her stout. "Want me to walk with you to your apartment?"

Her own glass empty, as well, Ray took Paula's and began to rinse it out. She shook her head. "No, thanks. I'll just do a quick wipe down here and lock up. I'll be fine on the way back. How about you? You had a lot more coke than I did?"

Paula grinned. "I also recover a lot faster than you, dear."

"Oh, yeah. The Immortal thing. I keep forgetting about that."

"You're supposed to," laughed Paula. "Life's not very fun if you keep thinking about things like that."

Walking around the bar, Paula embraced the tiny woman. "Thank you so much for the great night. I needed it. Try to get some rest, if you can."

"I will," said Raven. "See you at the _Systema_ workout tomorrow?"

"I'll be there."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Stas Orlov scanned his small group of students. As usual, they were chattering amongst each other with great energy. And, as usual, he would drain some of that energy from them by the end of the session. But only some of it. He enjoyed their spirit. It drove him as much as it did them. He frowned slightly. One of his little cherubs was missing.

"Has anyone seen Raven today?" he bellowed over the sound of their conversation. His booming voice silenced the prattle in the room.

"I saw her at the pub last night," volunteered Paula. "She might have slept in. She'd had a hard night."

"Rachel, would you please go over to the staff apartments and check on her?" Asami glanced inquiringly at her assistant.

"Yes, ma'am," Rachel replied. "I'll be back soon."

Stas nodded as the woman left the room. "In that case, to pass the time as we wait, let's begin."

Stas had them all begin with a good routine of stretches first. Next, he ran them all through a series of drills as a review. He decided to add some spice to the routines and had them pair up for sparring. After fifteen minutes of that, he let them take a short rest, mostly for the benefit of the greatly battered Sergeant Rawlins.

"Perhaps you should wear armor for the next set," he suggested to the medic as they walked over to the chairs. Nodding his agreement, Rawlins picked up a small towel and wiped down his sweat-drenched face.

Sebastian McNab stepped into the room and walked discreetly over to Asami. He leaned down to whisper into her ear. She stood, saying only, "Excuse me," and left the room. She returned three minutes later, her face sullen, as the students were ambling back onto the training mats. Stas cleared his throat to order their silence. Everyone looked her way.

"Rachel just called from Raven's apartment," Asami said softly. "Raven is dead. It looks like she overdosed on cocaine last night. The stuff was everywhere."

The class lost all interest in further training from that point.

xxxxxxxxxx

23 June 2004

Forward Operating Base Wright

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Lieutenant Colonel Ellis Brock frowned as he watched three British soldiers dismount from the newly arrived convoy of vehicles. _As if life in the Korengal Valley were not difficult enough on my FOB already_ , now he had to babysit a general officer and his thirty-plus man entourage to boot. Sure, he had received the official word of what this brigadier wanted to do while he was here, but Brock was positive the man, like any general, was going to fuck up his operations big time and have a nice damn grin on his face the whole time while he did it.

"And here comes the big man himself," Brock muttered under his breath as a blond man approached him flanked on either side by two flunkies, one a taller blond man and the other a shorter dark-haired man. Brock's sergeant major, Command Sergeant Major Matthew Darius, snickered at the remark. Neither Brock nor Darius saluted the man as he came near. Such things were not done in a tactical environment.

"Lieutenant Colonel Brock," stated the man in the center, shaking Brock's hand. "Thank you for meeting us."

"Yes, sir," Brock replied. He did not, as many would have done, put on a fake smile, flag officer or not.

"I trust all the arrangements we've requested have been made."

Brock was taken aback somewhat. There was something about this man, his voice in particular, which left no room for argument.

"They have, sir. You can have your men pull your vehicles this way to drop their gear."

"Thank you. Lead the way."

The shorter man next to the brigadier turned and motioned to the convoy. The vehicles made a vrooming sound and began to slowly follow the five men. As they walked, the brigadier spoke with Brock.

"I presume you've had time to review my plan, Colonel."

"Yes, sir, I have."

"Your thoughts?"

"The ammunition requirements are easy enough to meet. Loaning you some vehicles will be, as well. We can also do the call for fire and other battle drills you wanted."

"But…?" Ashton waited.

"But I'm surprised by the platoon of Afghan infantry and interpreters you want to accompany you on this mission. Not so much the terps. I mean, there are some weird dialects out there, like Pashayi, and we only have two terps for that one. We're lucky to have those. But the ANA, that has me confused."

"Have you not used Afghan National Army during any of your missions, Colonel?"

"Yes, sir, a few, but I haven't been impressed by what I've seen of their performance."

"Perhaps you saw what you expected to see, Colonel."

"Sir?"

The brigadier didn't respond. He just kept walking. _British prick,_ thought Brock. _I hope you get fried out there, if you even have the guts to go outside the wire yourself. My bet is you don't._

xxxxxxxxxx

26 June 2004

Forward Operating Base Wright  
Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

"How is it, Darren?"

"Going well," replied the Irishman as he sat next to Ashton in a folding chair under one of the FOB's tents. "The boys are integrating well with the ANA; the commo equipment is synching well both here and with the TOC back at NextGen HQ back at home so they'll be able to hear and see us when we go out; and everyone has the battle drills down. I think they'll be ready soon."

"Ammo? Vehicles?"

"That's good to go, too. Just need to load magazines, test fire weapons this afternoon, and load the vehicles in the morning. Then a few more drills and that's it."

Ashton nodded. "Sounds good. Front load the sniper teams and send them out tomorrow. I'd like two OPs (observation points) on the objective by 1500 on the twenty-eighth."

"Can do."

Ashton sat quietly for a while, staring into the distance. After a few moments, he spoke.

"The vehicles might only get us so far. There could still be a lot of walking involved. I hope the lads are ready for that."

"Oh, they will be," Dublin said. "They know that's part of any mission."

Ashton leaned back in his chair. "Afghanistan is a different place, though. This is some rough terrain. Many of them haven't experienced this before."

"But many of the others have," advised Dublin. "They'll be helping their buddies prepare for it."

"True. Like a good team should." Ashton looked up at the cloudless sky. "I just hope this doesn't end in total disaster."

Dublin had no response to that.

xxxxxxxxxx

28 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"Oh, shit." Rachel Lehr let the profanity slip before remembering she was at Ashton's house, not at NextGen. Her eyes fixated on the page in Val's notebook, her breakfast forgotten. She had started to join the family for breakfast since the brigadier had left in the belief it would help with getting the day's events on track. To her dismay, she had found that Asami more often than not skipped breakfast and chose to sleep in. She ended up eating with the children instead. It usually ended up being entertaining but was often not very productive.

"What is it?" asked Alyssa, the oldest teenager at the table. Lehr liked Alyssa. In the past week, they had had many conversations that Lehr would rate as significantly more than pleasant, to put them conservatively. She seemed to be the perfect combination of maturity and playfulness to make for quite a fun person.

 _Maybe that is why the other boy, Johnny, likes her so much, or is just because she's beautiful? No, I see the way they interact. There's more there than just a boy lusting after a hot girl. He actually loves her._

Lehr looked up from the notebook, a small note of panic on her face. The other children at the table were looking at her now. She took a breath.

"I was looking through Val's old notes. There are visitors scheduled to arrive later this morning from America. They'll be here for three weeks. We all completely forgot about them because of the deployment, I guess."

Further down the table, Tristan dropped his silverware. "You're right. Matt Woodham and John Boatwright will be here with their wives."

"When are they supposed to arrive?" asked Alyssa.

Lehr checked the notebook again. "They set down in London earlier this morning and a private charter plane has been cleared to bring them here." She checked her watch. "They'll arrive at 09:30, in one hour and fifteen minutes."

"Then we can finish our meal, get dressed, and get to the airfield just in time," said Johnny. "We're pretty much done anyway."

"We're going to have company?" asked Marc excitedly. His face was aglow. "Who is it?"

"Some friends of your dad's," Alyssa answered.

"How many are there?" he continued.

"Four," contributed Tristan.

"How old are they?"

"They're in their early sixties," said Tristan.

"So they're really old," remarked Tally.

"Think of it like having grandparents coming to visit," remarked Alyssa. "Four more people to play with."

"Ooh," cried Marc. "I've never had grandparents to play with." He smiled even more. He drained his juice and set down his glass. "Let's get ready now."

"Just a moment, little guy," said Johnny. "We're almost done."

"I'll go wake up Asami while you all finish up," Lehr announced as she stood.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Matt, over here."

Tristan waved at the four people standing atop the small staircase leading down from the private jet, their luggage in hand. They looked over to see a twelve-year old boy, obviously Tristan, jumping and waving at them. Next to him stood two teenagers; a boy and a girl, two younger and very excited looking children; also one boy and one girl, and two adult women; but no Benjamin Asher. Behind them was parked a large car with a driver patiently waiting. A look of obvious confusion covered their faces.

They descended the stairs slowly and walked toward the group. Tristan ran out to meet them, embracing each of them in turn, even Beth whom he had not met before.

"I wouldn't want you to feel left out," he said to her with a grin.

She smiled at him. "Well, aren't you just a dear?"

"Come on," Tristan said, taking Matt Woodham's hand. "Come meet everyone."

"Okay, okay," laughed Woodham. "Give us a moment. "We're not quite as spry as we once were."

They were all quite fit for their ages, it turned out, and made the short walk without any difficulty whatsoever. They approached the group with smiles on their faces. As they neared, Tristan gave them an important piece of information.

"Guys, just in case you didn't already know, Benjamin Asher is like me." He stopped walking for a moment and faced them. "His real name is David Ashton. That's the name these folks are going to use."

"My gosh," said Woodham. "I kind of wondered when I heard his voice. It sounded a little different, British accent and all, but then he sounded kind of like that back then, too. He still sounded young, though. Now I know."

"What's this?" asked Beth.

"We'll explain in the car," said John Boatwright. "It's a bit complicated."

"Maybe you should wait until we're at the house," suggested Tristan. "Those two little kids don't know yet, either."

The two men nodded; so did Lily Woodham. Beth noticed.

"You know about this, too? Whatever it is?"

"Yes, I do." She looked at the two men. "I'll explain it to her privately. How about that?"

"That's fine," said John.

"Thank you, Lily," said Matt.

"I'm so confused," Beth admitted.

Lily took her hand. "Don't worry about it right now. I'll explain it all soon."

They continued walking toward the group, smiles back in place. Asami stepped forward.

"Hello," she said, offering her hand. "I'm Asami Ukita. I'm David's girlfriend."

"Hello, Asami, I'm Matt Woodham." He shook her hand. Asami greeted all four arrivals. Rachel Lehr came next, then Alyssa and Johnny. Lily Woodham walked up to Tally and knelt before her, smiling.

"And who is this pretty little girl?" Tally gave her a full grin in exchange for the compliment. "And such a pretty smile, too," said Lily.

"My name is Tally."

"That's a nice name. I bet that's short for something. Am I right?"

Tally nodded. "Natalya. My full name is Grace Natalya Ashton."

"Well, hello, Grace Natalya Ashton. My name is Lily Woodham. It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you. You're a very kind lady." Tally held out her hand.

"Thank you, Tally. You're very kind, too." Lily shook her hand lightly. "Is this your brother?" Marc nodded vigorously as Tally said, "Yes, ma'am."

Lily stepped in front of Marc and knelt in front of him. She gave him an equally broad grin. "And what is your name, little boy with such a big smile?"

"Marcus Aaron Ashton," he announced proudly, offering a tiny hand, "but you can call me Marc."

"Marcus Aaron, a name as nice as your smile. It's nice to meet you." She took his hand in hers.

"Alyssa says you're going to be like visiting grandparents and play with us." He beamed at her with excitement.

"Now that does sound fun. You might have to take it easy on us at first, okay?"

"Okay. I can do that." He gave her a thumbs up.

Lily ruffled his hair and stood. "Good boy."

"Now that everyone's been introduced," said Matt Woodham, "I have to ask, where's, er, David?"

Lehr hesitated, glancing at Asami, who nodded at her. "He got called away. Business."

"Well, he did say that might happen."

"Let's get your things in the car and get to the house," Asami suggested.

xxxxxxxxxx

28 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Aadam Farid squatted in the center of the tiny village, sipping his cup of tea. He kept his face from showing his reaction to the bitterness of the drink. It was not as good as the tea he preferred, but it would do. He glanced up at Rafa Shinwari, one of two other men who had joined him for this little meeting.

"Why the glum face, Asfand?" Farid asked. He spoke in a dialect of Pashayi, a group of languages so rare less than half a million people on the planet spoke it.

Asfand Dhanial shrugged. "It is nothing. Just a hard day, but a good one."

"How many do we have now?"

"Not counting you and me," replied Shinwari, "we have five hundred thirty-two. They are gathered in the woods around here, armed and awaiting instructions."

Farid had to take a step to steady himself in his squat. He laughed aloud.

"That is incredible, Rafa. I will have to go back and send more documentation to get them all into England. This means, not even counting what Hakim gets for us, we can have even more follow up operations after we finish with what we have planned. Outstanding."

"That I why I look as I do," said Dhanial. "I am weary."

"You have certainly earned your rest, Asfand." He gave the man a broad smile.

Farid's cell phone began to vibrate. He went to one knee and pulled it from his pocket. He stared at it briefly before flipping it open.

"I'm surprised you have reception out here," said Shinwari in English.

"As am I," replied Farid. "It's a text message from Charles." He put the phone back in his pocket. "Apparently, we have some company coming soon," he said with a grin. "It might be today or tomorrow. Regardless, we should welcome them."

xxxxxxxxxx

28 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

The Woodhams and Boatwrights were understandably exhausted from their trip. Rather than having them pay for hotel rooms, they were given the guest rooms recently vacated by Jack and Raven. Johnny, Alyssa, and Tristan entertained Marc and Tally while the guests napped. Terry and another staff cook dropped by to prepare lunch at 12:30, just as the four arrivals were waking up and showering. They marveled at the dining room as they were led to the table.

"My word," said Matt, "David has done well for himself."

Asami grinned. "He has several businesses around the world, not just NextGen." She glanced at Lily and Beth. "Did you get a chance to explain things, Lily?"

"Yes, I did, just a while ago."

"I'm still a little fuzzy on it all," admitted Beth, "but I think I understand most of it." She looked around the dining room, seeing that the younger children were not yet there. "How many people here are immortal?" she asked.

"Including David, Tristan, Johnny and Alyssa."

Beth's eyes widened. "So all of those children will never grow up? They'll be just like they are forever?"

Asami nodded. "Yes."

"Oh, how sad." Beth sat in a chair, her head in her hands. A moment later, she looked up. "How old are they? I mean really?"

"Let me think," said Asami, also sitting. "Johnny just had his eight hundred sixth birthday. Tristan is forty-four and Alyssa is around two hundred fifty, I think. There is another one here, Paula, who is an adult, who is about ninety or so. You'll see here eventually. She's a pretty blonde woman. She works late on her computer so she sleeps late. Oh, here she is. Hi, Paula."

"Hello," replied a weary Paula as she entered the room. "Sorry I'm so late. I was up really late." Both of the men stood as she entered and she introduced herself.

"What do you do for a living, Paula," asked Beth.

"I'm an econometrician. I study the effects different things have on a country's economy and report them to my company."

"Sounds complicated," said Beth.

"It can be. There's a lot of math and theory involved. Most people's eyes glaze over when I talk about it."

Asami laughed. "Except David. He's had long conversations with her about her theories these last few weeks."

"Well, he's an economist, too," said Paula. "We speak the same language. Although sometimes I think he's on an entirely different level than I am. I see wheels turning behind his eyes like he's thinking about things ten or twenty degrees removed from what we're discussing but are still somehow tenuously linked to them."

With another laugh, Asami replied, "He probably is. One time on the beach in Japan, I saw him watch the way birds were flying across the water and somehow connect it to being a good time to make some short sale of a stock in a petroleum company in Texas. I don't know how he did it, but he made a lot of money just by looking at birds that day. Who knows what he's done after chatting with you."

Paula looked at Asami with wide eyes. "How much is a lot?" she asked.

"Uhm, I think it was something like seventeen or eighteen million."

"Dollars?"

"Pounds."

"Shit!" exclaimed Paula.

"What's that in dollars?" queried Lily.

"Almost twenty-eight million," said Paula.

"Oh, my," said Matt. "We should take him on as an investment advisor."

Asami smiled at them. "A lot of people have, and pay him handsomely for it, but they've made a lot of money as a result."

"How much do they pay him?" asked John.

"He typically keeps thirty percent of whatever he makes for his clients."

"That's stiff," replied Matt, "but if you're making that kind of money for your clients, I guess it's not a bad deal."

"So that's one of his businesses, then? On top of what he does here?" asked John.

"Yes," Asami said. "The investment business is, at least for David, almost a hobby. He makes those sorts of connections without really thinking about it and just makes phone calls or sends emails to his brokers who make the trades. He channels clients to them and the brokers pay him the commissions."

"How do the brokers know their his clients or not?" asked Beth.

"Simple," said Asami. "It's his brokerage company. They're all his clients." She smiled again.

"So what is NextGen?" asked Lily. "And why does he do this when he obviously makes more money in the stock market?"

"He makes more money in a lot of things. NextGen is a private military corporation. I think he does it to stay active, to keep from being cooped up in an office all day. He still manages all these other companies, too, somehow, but he spends his days primarily with NextGen."

"And what does NextGen do usually?" inquired Beth.

"Equipment testing, counterterrorism, intelligence, physical security, and executive security. There might be more, but that is what I've been able to figure out," Asami answered.

"So, special forces-type stuff. Like our husbands used to do," said Lily.

"Yes, that's it," Asami affirmed.

Tristan, Johnny and Alyssa brought two giggling children into the room. Terry and his staff cook were right behind them.

"Looks like it's time for us to think about lunch," said Asami.

xxxxxxxxxx

28 June 2008

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Staff Sergeant Chad Meeker peered through the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight of his Accuracy International AWM rifle. He had a clear view of the tiny village below. Three men were gathered in the open, squatting down and discussing something. One of them turned his head, giving Meeker a full facial view. Meeker glanced down at a photograph by his arm held down by a small stone.

"Aadam Farid identified. Verify," he said to his spotter, Sergeant Dennis O'Rourke.

A second later, O'Rourke whispered, "Confirmed."

"Rafa Shinwari identified. Verify."

"Confirmed."

xxxxxxxxxx

28 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Asami sat at the kitchen table, her face in her hands, the report of Raven's autopsy before her. The nine page document had been delivered by Rachel an hour earlier and she had read it three times. Not that she had been able to recall more than a few snippets of it. "Massive cocaine overdose." "Signs of nasal and gastric distress." "Obvious signs of vomiting prior to death." What stuck out to her the most, however, had been two words, "arsenic trioxide." There had been poison in the cocaine. Raven would have been dead regardless of how much of the stuff she had used that night. At least, that was how Asami interpreted it.

She raised her head when she heard Johnny and Alyssa coming down the stairs, Tristan and Paula behind them, chattering energetically. She checked her watch. It was almost lunch time. She gathered the pages of the autopsy report together and turned it face down in front of her.

"Hi, Asami," greeted Alyssa as she entered the room. Noting the woman's expression, she instantly became apprehensive. "What's wrong?" The three babbling little baboons behind her became silent, as well.

Asami tried to put on a happier face, but only for a brief moment. She gestured for the quartet to sit. They complied without a word. Rachel came in from the back garden with Tally and Marc. This time, Asami did smile as she turned to face them.

"Rachel, would you please take the children into the dining room while I talk to these four?"

"Yes, ma'am," agreed Rachel, glancing at the report and nodding. "Come along, you little dolls," she coaxed. "Let's move into the dining room." She placed a gentle hand on each laughing child's back to encourage them.

Once all three were out of the room, Asami faced her audience. She placed her hands atop the document before her and slowly pushed it forward.

"Rachel gave me this a while ago. It's Ray's autopsy report." Seeing the raised eyebrows from all around, she continued. "It mostly says what we thought, that she died from an overdose, but it also says something about arsenic trioxide. She was poisoned. She would have died no matter what."

"Oh, God," whispered Alyssa.

"Damn," muttered Paula. After a moment, she added, "That explains things, I guess."

"What's that?" asked Johnny.

"Ray invited me over to the pub that night to try her new batch of coke. We shared several lines of it. Well, when I was on the way back to the house, I felt quite sick. When I was almost to the little bridge over the river, I got nauseous. I ran to the water's edge and threw up into the river. Made a ghastly sound in that water. I even had to splash my face with the water several times before I felt well enough to move on again."

"And you didn't think to check on Ray after that?" queried Alyssa.

"Honey, I was so out of it all I could think of was getting back to the house and maybe having a drink. I wasn't thinking straight."

Both Johnny and Alyssa nodded at that. They were fully away how cocaine affected one's thoughts.

"That's hideous," said Tristan. "Arsenic trioxide is used in rat poison. Do people really use that in cocaine?"

"Oh, yeah," answered Johnny. "You'll find all manner of different shit used to cut cocaine. Sometimes it's lesser drugs like amphetamines or crystal meth and sometimes it's just filler stuff like baking soda or cornstarch. But you'll find anything in between, too. Take it from someone who has tried them all."

"So this wasn't someone out to kill Ray, then?" asked Alyssa.

Johnny shook his head. "Sounds to me like a dealer cut his product with too much filler. Hell, if he put so much in it that it even made Paula sick, then he's ruined his batch and he's going to kill off all his customers. You'll probably hear about a lot of dead coke heads in the news soon…and a dead dealer."

Paula drooped her head and tapped a slow drumbeat on the table with her fingers. "What do we do about Ray's body? And has anyone told her parents in the States yet?"

Asami shook her head. "I was going to call them today. I guess I can do that now. You kids go on to lunch. Let me handle this."

"Where's Asami?" Tally asked them as they took their seats.

"She needs to make a phone call," replied Alyssa. "She'll be here soon." She turned her gaze to Rachel. "Would you mind going to her? I expect she's going to need help when the call is done."

Rachel nodded and left. Asami gratefully waved her over to the phone. Forty-five minutes later, per the request of her parents, the body of Raven Eastman was to be shipped to Lansing, Michigan for burial, all expenses to be handled by the one of Ashton's corporations.

xxxxxxxxxx

28 June 2008  
Forward Operating Base Wright  
Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

"Alpha Sierra One calling, sir." Sergeant Allen West offered the radio's hand mic to Ashton. Alpha Sierra One was the call sign for the senior sniper for Alpha Company, Staff Sergeant Meeker.

"Thank you, Sergeant," he said, leaning on the side of the HMMWV as he put the mic to his ear. The broadcast could also be heard over a speaker beside the radio mounted in the vehicle. "This is Nightmare Six, over."

"This is Alpha Sierra One. We have eyes on the objective. Break. We have positive ID on HVT (High Value Target) one and two. Break. How copy? Over."

"Good copy, Alpha Sierra One, over."

"HVT one seems rather happy about something. He's got a big smile on his face. Break. We also see about thirty civilians and twenty or so armed men in the village. Break. There is also some movement in the valley below and the ridge above. Numbers unknown. Break. Estimate forty or fifty in both locations. Doesn't look good. Over."

"This is Alpha Sierra Three, over."

"This is Nightmare Six. Go ahead, Three, over."

"This is Three. Concur with One's assessment. Numbers may be higher. Break. Definitely some movement around there."

"This is Nightmare Six. Are any of them approaching your positions?"

"This is One. Affirmative. We see six. One hundred meters out. They may bypass us without seeing us. Over." Alpha Sierra One's voice was a whisper over the microphone.

"This is Three. Negative. Over."

"This is Nightmare Six. Good copy all messages. Plan unchanged. Will stand by for updates from One. Nightmare Six out."

Ashton and Sergeant West waited for several tense minutes, staring at the silent speaker.

"Come on, give us something," muttered West.

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Sergeant," replied Ashton.

A minute later, the speaker crackled. "This is Alpha Sierra Three. We have eyes on Alpha Sierra One and Two. Break. Four of the hostiles have bypassed their position. Break. Two are ten meters to their rear facing away from them. No other hostiles are in line of sight. Break. One and Two could possibly take them down. Over."

"This is Nightmare Six. Your call One and Two. Out."

"Wait! This is Three. One of them is walking away. Looks like he's going for a piss. Break. Alpha Sierra One, one is at your six. The other is at your eight, twenty meters away. Over."

xxxxxxxxxx

Meeker and O'Rourke turned their heads slowly to look at each other. They nodded once. As one, they stood and turned. Meeker broke right, dashing for the farther man. O'Rourke ran straight for the man in front of him. Each of them drew their knives as they neared their targets.

The closest man barely had time to register the fact he was in danger before an arm was around his neck. He was pulled back, the arm choking off his air. O'Rourke's blade drove deep into the man's right kidney, the blazing pain of it allowing little more than a gasp to escape his lips. O'Rourke twisted the knife savagely and withdrew it, then drew the blade across his throat.

Meeker's man had just set his weapon down and gone to his knees, fumbling with his clothing when he heard footfalls behind him. He turned, his eyes widening in shock. Meeker dove at him. Driving his body into the man, he clutched at his throat, missed, and caught a thumb in his cheek instead. The man opened his jaws, trying to bite down on Meeker's thumb. Meeker pulled out his hand and seized the man's throat, squeezing hard, while stabbing downward with his other hand at the same time.

The man twisted to the left. The blade, which would have gouged into his solar plexus, scored across his rib cage instead. The movement also loosened Meeker grip on his throat. He let out a weak gasp of pain. Meeker let himself slide off the man while pushing him, forcing him to continue his roll. Meeker jumped on his back, pinning him. This exposed his kidney for another stab attempt. Meeker stabbed downward again and again, five times. He then placed the tip of his blade on the back of the man's head, at the base of the skull, put his hand on the end of the handle, and pushed down with all his weight.

Meeker pulled the knife from the man's skull and shook the gore from the blade. He sat back, breathing heavily. He regarded the body beside him, still quivering in its death throes. Shrugging, he slit the man's throat for good measure.

xxxxxxxxxx

"This is Alpha Sierra One. Two hostiles down. Bodies concealed. No injuries. Over."

"This is Nightmare Six. Good job. We will see you tomorrow. Out."

Ashton hung the microphone next to the radio. He stared at the silent speaker for a long moment, tapping his fingers on the vehicle's door.

"And tomorrow, Aadam Farid, we will see to it that you lose that smile of yours."


	24. The Call of the Mountains

Author's Note: Thank you to Wikipedia ( wiki/Dragon_Skin) for the description of dragon skin armor.

"Against the waves, with our swords in our hands  
Against the sea, with our backs to the walls  
Against distress, in the presence of our enemies  
Against the storms, roaring at our faces"

"The Call of the Mountains" - Eluveitie

29 June 2008  
Forward Operating Base Wright  
Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Ashton sat in the HMMWV studying his map, a cigar clamped in his teeth, one leg dangling out of the side of the vehicle. He wore a pair of Wiley X polarized sunglasses to ward off some of the glare of the sun. They did not ward of the frown only partially concealed by his cigar, though.

No matter how often he looked at the map, he did not like what he saw. The terrain was atrocious. When the twenty-seven men of NextGen and their fifty man compliment of Afghan National Army rolled out, they would be travelling on the narrow Kunar-Bajaur Link Road for up to nine kilometers (5.6 miles) on an ill-maintained road and on a punishing incline. Who knew how long that would actually take. The reports from the sniper teams made this a worrisome thought, too. There was a good possibility they would have to dismount and walk to the objective at some point. Even if they were able to get to the objective completely by vehicle, they would be less than five kilometers (3 miles) from the Pakistani border, offering their enemy an easy avenue of escape. Since NextGen was here operating as official British soldiers, they could not cross that border without sanction from the British government.

Deciding there was nothing more he could do about the map or his plan, he set the map aside and stepped out of the HMMWV. His SA80 rifle was leaning in the junction of the door and the vehicle. He picked it up and examined it one last time, going through the standard functions check. Everything was fine. He placed it on the seat he had just vacated and drew the Glock 17 pistol from its holster at his hip, checked it, as well. Also good. The only thing left to do was load them and he was ready. He checked the magazines on his body armor; fifteen for the rifle and six for the pistol. He tapped the knife on his left hip. Six grenades. Good.

Reaching into the HMMWV, he pulled out his helmet and carefully put it on his head. The helmet had a fixed shroud on the front for mounting night vision goggles or other equipment. This helmet had a set of night vision goggles attached. There was also a helmet-mounted camera on the left side and a speaker and small microphone on the right. Ashton clipped the strap under his chin and rotated his neck a few times to get used to the weight. He then connected a small wire to the radio set in a pocket of his armor carrier. This would allow him to speak to all members of the NextGen team and to NextGen headquarters in Hereford via the voice-activated microphone on his helmet. He could also mute the mic by tapping a button on the helmet.

Darren Dublin and Devon Sather approached him, also fully equipped in body armor and helmet. The armor was another item, like the rifle the snipers were using, which NextGen was testing. Dubbed Dragon Skin by its developers, it consisted of two-inch-wide circular discs overlapping like scale armor, creating a flexible vest that allowed a good range of motion and was intended to absorb a high number of hits compared with other military body armor. The discs were composed of silicon carbide ceramic matrices and laminates, much like the larger ceramic plates in other types of bullet resistant vests. The intent of the armor, as opposed to that worn by the Americans, for example, who wore large ceramic plates, was to allow for greater range of motion and reduce weight while providing greater protection and reducing cost.

"Ready to go, boss?" asked Dublin.

"I'm not really the one to ask. Are they?" He gestured to the men behind them.

"Raring to go," replied Dublin.

Ashton's eyes turned to his left. Lieutenant Colonel Brock stood fifty meters away at the command center, watching them intently. Dublin and Sather looked that way, as well.

"That man really hates you," said Sather.

"Fuck him," blurted Ashton. "We have more important things to do than worry about his ego."

"Roll?" asked Dublin.

"Roll," said Ashton, tossing his cigar aside. He returned to his vehicle. Signalling to the gunner in the center of the vehicle to get ready, he tapped the side of his helmet. "This is Nightmare Six calling Nightmare Three, radio check, over."

Alan Weatheral's voice came crackling over the speaker in Ashton's ear and every helmet in the NextGen team. "This is Nightmare Three, radio check, out."

"This is Nightmare Six. Departing SP (start point) 1102, over."

"Roger, departing SP, out."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2008

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"I get a break? Awesome!" Tristan smiled brightly over his breakfast plate.

"Only from your tutors," said Asami. "Not your workouts. And just while company is here."

"That's cool," Tristan replied, digging into his breakfast.

"It's also nice to actually see you at breakfast, Asami," conveyed Alyssa. "We never get to see you this early."

"Someone has to play hostess while David's away," Asami said, grinning. "I should do it more often, too. I had forgotten how incredible Terry's breakfasts are. I'll have to start working out more, though."

"You'll have to do that anyway as Tristan gets better," Johnny added.

"What are you teaching him?" asked Matt.

"Filipino martial arts. We're starting with escrima sticks."

Matt's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Oh, dear," said Lily. "Don't get him started. Matt used to be heavily into that when he was in the army."

"Were you?" Asami looked at him with renewed interest.

Matt shrugged. "I haven't done anything with it since I retired almost twenty years ago. That's why I didn't want to teach Tristan. I thought I was too much out of practice to be of any value. Oh, but I loved it while I was doing it."

"Would you like to join us while we work out? We've just started with Tristan so we're going slow."

Lily started laughing. "And throw out a hip while you do it."

Asami hid a smile behind her hand as she giggled. "No, no. We're being very gentle right now. All of you could do it. It would be good exercise."

"When is it?"

"Two o'clock," Tristan answered.

"Okay, then."

Lily looked at her husband then back at her plate. "I've seen that expression before," she said. "I'm not talking him out of this. I'm in, too, I suppose."

"So am I," replied John.

"Count me in, too," declared Beth. "Maybe I can beat some sense into John after all these years."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2008

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"Holy shit," said Jack. "That terrain is murder. They've been driving for almost three hours. They could almost walk faster than this."

Alan Weatheral stood behind the Watcher, watching the divided big screen televisions, and nodded. Each of the ten screens, except the last, was divided into three sections to show the view from each team member's helmet camera; the last screen had four sections.

"You're right," said Weatheral. "The only real advantages of the vehicles are their armor and heavy weapons. "If not for that blockage they had to clear, they'd probably be there by now."

"I was sure that was going to be an ambush," Jack stated. "I'd have bet my first paycheck on it."

"So would've I," confirmed Weatheral. "And they did, as well. You saw all the security they had out while they cleared the rocks away. Fortunately, it was just some downfall from the night before. Lucky stroke. But they still have three and a half kilometers to go before they get to the objective."

"At this rate, it will take them another two hours to get there."

"Or longer," confirmed Weatheral.

"This is the part of ops I always hate," remarked Nicola Courtorielle. "The waiting. You know something is going to happen. You don't know what or when, but something."

"And the first casualty upon contact with the enemy," contributed Robyn Radway.

"Is the plan," finished Jack. He scanned the screens again. A streamer of smoke on one of the team member's cameras caught his eye. He had just enough time to say, "Oh, shit," before the team radio crackled.

"Contact left. RPG."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2008

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

The rocket propelled grenade flew toward the convoy of vehicles, leaving a trail of smoke behind it. The rocket-shaped warhead wobbled in flight and veered to the right, bypassing the convoy and exploding harmlessly over the valley. The lead vehicle opened fire with a .50 caliber machine gun; a shoddy warhead may not be in the cards with the next shot.

The gunners of the other vehicles were actively scanning for targets. They did not have to wait long. Men with RPGs or AK-47 rifles appeared over the ridgeline and pointed their weapons down at them. Rounds flew in both directions. An RPG detonated in front of a HMMWV; bullets battering the armor of the vehicles. A NextGen man screamed at a round tore into his arm. Fifty caliber rounds raked the ridgeline, punching through the thinner rocks and any flesh they found behind them.

More RPGs rained down. Most went astray as gunners were forced to hide or were killed by fire from below. One struck the hood of a HMMWV, exploding on impact. Another landed in front of the gunner's cupola of another HMMWV. Most of the concussion was absorbed by the armor of the cupola. This was not enough to save the gunner, however. His lifeless body crumpled into the interior of the vehicle, his face and neck savaged by the blast and shrapnel.

Ashton had a view of the valley from his seat inside his HMMWV. He could see men moving below. At the moment, he saw less than ten. There would be more soon. He glanced out of the front windscreen. There were a few men taking shots at them with rifles. The gunner behind him was making good work of them with his .50 caliber. Ashton opened the door of his HMMWV.

"Nightmare Six going out," he announced over the radio.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"What the fuck is he doing?" asked Jack.

"Assessing the situation," said Weatheral.

"He's in the middle of a shitstorm. What more does he need to know?"

"Look where he's looking, Jack. He's getting the big picture."

Jack looked. Ashton's view was switching from the road in front, to the ridgeline, to the valley, to the rear. He was also scanning the state of the vehicles and the men. He looked once more at the valley. "Shit," he heard Ashton say.

"He doesn't like what he sees," said Jack.

"Who would?" said Weatheral.

"Nightmare Seven, Alpha Three Six, Alpha Four Six, report to Nightmare Six at the front of the convoy. Bring the ANA platoon leader with you, over."

"Nightmare Seven, roger, out."

"Now what's he doing?" asked Jack as the two team leaders reported in.

"I'd say he's developing a plan," said Weatheral.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Sebastian, the butler, opened the door on the second knock. Recognizing Jack, he ushered him inside.

"You'll find everyone in the training hall, sir," he offered.

"Thank you," said Jack, already moving in that direction. He stopped after a few steps, seeing people in the sitting room. Tally and Marc were playing with four older people he did not recognize.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to barge in on you like this."

"No problem," said one of the men as he stood. He walked over and offered his hand. "It must be important if you're coming in so quickly. Matt Woodham."

Jack had taken the man's hand before the name fully registered. He froze in mid-handshake. "Matt Woodham?" he repeated.

"That's right. Is there a problem?"

"No, no. I…" Jack looked across the sitting room, finally getting a good view of the other man. "And you're John Boatwright."

Boatwright grinned. "That's right. But how did you know that?"

"There's not much time to explain. Let's just say that I'm Tristan's Watcher and I know both of your names. With that in mind, the two of you will very likely want to be a part of why I'm here. Would you please follow me?"

Woodham turned to his wife. "Lily, would you please mind the kids for a moment?"

"Sure," she said. "We were having a great time anyway."

"I will help also," volunteered Sebastian.

"Thank you, Sebastian," said Jack. Looking back to the two men, he prompted, "Let's get to the training room."

Tristan had just finished the day's _Systema_ and was mopping his brow with a towel when Jack walked in with Matt Woodham and John Boatwright. Alyssa, Vivia, Paula, Johnny, and Asami also looked over with interest. Stas Orlov stood off to the side, watching everything.

"Hi, Jack," chimed Tristan. His happy tone died down as soon as he noticed Jack's somber expression. "What is it?"

"David, Darren, and Devon have been ambushed. They're in a firefight right now. I've come to take to you NextGen headquarters…if you want to go."

"You're damn right I want to go," bellowed Vivia, storming toward the Watcher.

Jack caught the small woman by the shoulders. She glared at him menacingly.

"Don't try to stop me, Jack."

"I'm not trying to stop you, Vivia," he said, grinning, "but, maybe a shower first?"

Vivia looked down at her sweat-drenched clothing. Everyone else did the same.

"I'll be quick," she said.

"So will we," promised Tristan.

In ten minutes, Alyssa, Vivia, Johnny, Paula, Matt Woodham, and John Boatwright were in one of Ashton's cars. George Pratt was at the wheel. Jack stood at the door of the car with Asami.

"Are you sure you don't want to go?" he asked her.

"I do but I don't," she said. "I don't want to see the horrible things that are going to be on those screens. I also don't want to see the people I love in danger. I don't think I can handle it. I"ll stay here with the kids until you get back."

Jack looked into the Japanese woman's eyes. "That makes you stronger than me, Asami. Not knowing would kill me."

Asami reached up and cupped Jack's face in her hands. Pulling him to her, she kissed him on the cheek. "It does," she said. "I just try not to show it. You'll let me know what happens?"

Jack nodded. "Of course, I will."

"Okay." She shooed him off. "Get out of here," she said with a smile she didn't feel.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2008

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

When Alan Weatheral opened the door to the TOC in response to Jack's knock, his eyes widened momentarily at the sight of the people with him. Weatheral pointed to a room across the hall.

"Please wait in there for a moment," he whispered. "Close the door, please. Quickly."

They shuffled into the suggested room and shut the door. As soon as it was closed, they heard Weatheral's voice thunder, "All non-class one personnel exit the TOC immediately. Do not report back until further notice. Spread the word to the other shifts. Thank you."

One minute passed. They heard the sound of feet walking down the hall. There was no chatter among the people leaving. They looked at each other. This meant one thing. A well-rehearsed, familiar drill. The door opened and Weatheral stuck his head inside.

"You may come inside now," he said.

As they entered the TOC, Jack gasped. Barely a third of the personnel remained. Weatheral smirked at him.

"You should notice something familiar, Jack," he said.

"I sure did," declared Tristan, eyeballing a man in a corner workstation.

"Yeah," said Johnny, suspiciously staring at a woman two desks away from him. "So did I."

"What?" asked Jack.

"Show him York," Weatheral said to one of the other operations assistants. Peter York grinned at Jack and turned over his left wrist, pulling back his wristwatch. On it could clearly be seen the blue Watcher tattoo.

"With the exception of myself," explained Weatheral, "class one TOC personnel are all either Watchers or Immortals. That means you kids can stop reaching for blades. You're at no risk. These guys are friendlies. They've worked with the brigadier since NextGen was founded, many of them longer."

Weatheral pointed at the screens on the wall. "Up there you'll see the displays from the helmet cams each team member is wearing. That chatter you hear in the background is their team frequency. Everyone take a seat and we can see what is happening.

"The short version of the story is their convoy was moving up the Kunar-Bajaur Link Road and was ambushed forty-five minutes ago. They've held off most of the RPGs, which we believe were supposed to cripple the vehicles, with their heavy machine guns."

Matt Woodham looked up at the screen, his eyes focusing on one of the faces. He nudged Boatwright and pointed.

"My God," said Woodham. "It's Benjamin Asher, er, I mean David Ashton. He looks exactly the same."

"And that's Duncan White," said Boatwright. "He was our team sergeant and later our battalion sergeant major.

"That's Darren Dublin," explained Vivia. "He's the regimental sergeant major for NextGen."

Weatheral motioned to York. "Turn up the volume, please, York."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Ashton, Dublin, the team leaders for teams three and four, and Lieutenant Gahez Baqri, the platoon leader of the ANA platoon, crouched close together at the side of Ashton's HMMWV. Ashton spoke loudly to be heard over the sound of bullets impacting against the vehicle.

"Okay, lads, it's not going to be long before these guys move up to the higher ridges and start firing their RPGs at us from there. Our .50 cals won't be able to elevate that high." Ashton stopped and translated his statement into Pashtun for the ANA platoon leader. Lieutenant Baqri's command of English was decent but Ashton wanted to be positive he understood. Baqri nodded.

"We're going to break this thing by hitting them back in three directions and a bit of spice." Everyone nodded at this, liking the idea already. "Brandon," he said, pointing at Captain Laramie, the commander of team three. "You will move the men forward and break the attack on the main road. Continue moving toward the objective. If vehicles are disabled, dismount and move out on foot."

"Yes, sir."

"Wesley." He pointed at Captain Daniel. "Get on the radio and call in CAS (Close Air Support) on every available target you see. That is your priority."

"Yes, sir."

"Gahez, take thirty of your men back two hundred meters." Ashton pointed down the road. "Go up the mountain and clear the ridgelines all the way to the objective. I've got two sniper teams up there so keep an eye out for them. Don't shoot my men." Ashton then translated his instructions. Baqri nodded again.

"Can do, sir," Baqri said, giving a thumbs up. Ashton nodded at him and gave him a smile. He looked to the side, movement catching his eye. He saw Devon Sather kneeling behind the vehicle to his rear, taking cover from incoming fire. When the fire lulled, the tall Watcher stood, pulling the rifle to his shoulder as his moved to his right, and fired several rounds before taking cover again behind Ashton's HMMWV.

"What the hell are you doing, Sather?" demanded Ashton.

"Staying next to my boss like he ordered me, sir," Sather answered with a straight face. "I'm your wingman, remember?"

"Whatever," said Ashton.

"And what's the spice, sir?" asked Captain Daniel, ignoring Sather.

"You're the spice, Wesley, playing hell with these bastards with aircraft everywhere possible. Darren and I are the third direction. We're going down in that valley to distract the horde that is gathering to swarm over us."

"Just the two of you, sir?"

"Yes," said Ashton.

"But, sir, that's suicide," cautioned the captain.

Ashton could see Sather wanted to say something, as well. He answered Captain Daniel first. "And it just might be enough to get the rest of you through. Now move out."

"Yes, sir," they said as one. Carefully, they rose and darted back to their individual positions. Soon, only Ashton, Dublin, and Sather remained.

"Alright, Sather, I can see you have something to say. Say it."

"I'm going, too."

Ashton tapped the side of his helmet, muting his microphone. Dublin and Sather did the same. "Are you fucking crazy?" Ashton nearly screamed. "You're not Immortal. Look down there." Sather looked. "What do you see?"

"A boiling pot of shit and you're going to need help stirring it." Sather smirked at the Minoan. Even Dublin laughed.

Ashton slumped against the HMMWV for a moment, unable to resist his own grin. Finally, he righted himself. Shaking his head, he looked at the Watcher. He tapped his helmet again.

"Damn it, man. It's your funeral. Now gather some grenades from the vehicles and let's get going."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"And if you make it back, Devon Sather, I'm going to kill you myself," muttered Vivia Wales.

Johnny Fairbanks, one arm already around Alyssa's shoulders, slid his chair toward Vivia, pulling Alyssa with him, and put his other arm around her. Vivia put her head on his shoulder, her eyes focused on Sather's helmet cam display. Through it, she saw Ashton wave at the gunner of the second HMMWV to get his attention.

"Dixon," he shouted. "Sweep a belt of HE (high explosive) down into the valley here." He pointed to a particular area and moved out of the way.

"Yes, sir," affirmed Dixon, traversing his weapon in that direction.

"What kind of grenade launcher is that?" asked Jack.

"That," said Weatheral, "is the Heckler and Koch _Granatmaschinengewehr_ or "grenade machine gun." The Germans have been using it for years. We're testing it for our army."

They watched at Corporal Dixon fired off a thirty-two round belt of grenades in less than six seconds.

"Another, sir?" asked Dixon.

"No, save it for yourselves," replied Ashton.

"Yes, sir." He began reloading the launcher.

Ashton looked back at Dublin and Sather. "Down we go," he said.

"Once more into the breach," muttered Dublin.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

All three of the men stood at the same time, Ashton and Dublin facing the valley, Sather facing the ridgeline. Sather fired several quick rounds at targets of opportunity above him, mostly to keep heads down, but he saw at least two strike flesh, and turned to follow the Immortals over the edge.

The declining terrain was abysmally steep. Ashton and Dublin were handling the descent relatively well, Ashton better than Dublin, almost as if he had done it many for lifetimes before.

 _Knowing him, he has,_ thought Sather as he slipped onto his rump. He decided to let gravity do the work for him and continue sliding. A moment later, Dublin fell, as well.

Dixon's preparatory barrage of grenades had had an obvious effect. Several broken bodies already littered the ground. Other wounded men staggered around in a daze. Ashton and Dublin fired at them as they descended. Six men fell without realizing they were in additional danger.

Sather saw two others approaching in the distance. He stopped his downward slide and propped himself against a slender tree. He was armed with an LM308MWS 7.62×51mm rifle, another experimental weapon being considered by the British army as a sharpshooter rifle. Sather peered through the scope and fired one shot. The farthest man fell. A second round put down the second man. Sather continued his slide downward.

They reached a flatter piece of ground and gathered together. For the moment, there were no hostiles around. Ashton nodded.

"We're lucky, for the moment," he said. "They haven't sent many people over here yet. That's going to change very soon. Previous complex ambushes like this typically have one hundred or more attack from above and below."

"One hundred?" asked Sather.

"Still so happy about coming down here?" chided Dublin.

"Too late now," Sather replied.

"Okay," said Asthon. "Attrition is the name of the game here. We hit small groups and move. We avoid the larger groups or make them segment into smaller ones."

"Traps?" asked Dublin.

"If there's time," replied Ashton.

"Let's get to it, then," said Sather.

"That'll have to wait," Dublin countered, pointing in the distance. "We're going to have company very soon."

"That's not what I'd call a small group," observed Sather. Ahead of them, six hundred meters away, spread across a wide swath of land, were easily fifty men.

"And that's probably the first wave," said Ashton. The three men backed slowly into the treeline, hoping they had not yet been spotted. "Nightmare Six to Alpha Four Six," said Ashton over his radio, "What's the word on that close air support? Over."

"This is Alpha Four Six. We've got inbound due in three minutes. Where do you want it? Over."

"We have fifty troops in the open six hundred meters to our east. In three minutes, they will be at approximately this grid." He gave the grid coordinates.

"Roger. Can you mark with smoke? Over."

"Roger Is the CAS rotory or fixed wing? Over."

"Rotory. Fixed wing is inbound later. Over."

"Shit," said Ashton. "American helicopter pilots are notorious for hitting too close to friendly positions. Uncover your IR patches." He got back on the radio. "Alpha Four Six, make sure all friendly elements have their infrared patches visible for positive identification whenever rotory CAS is inbound. Over."

"Roger. Will spread the word. Over."

"Okay, Darren, get that grenade launcher ready."

Dublin's SA80 had a Heckler and Koch AG-36 40mm grenade launcher and EO Tech holographic sight attached to it. He opened the breach to the launcher, swinging it to the left of the barrel of his rifle, and inserted a grenade. He then extended the ladder sight on the left side of the weapon.

"Ready when you are, boss," he said, hefting the rifle.

"Let's get low," suggested Asthon as the thumping sounds of helicopter rotors came within earshot. "We're ready with smoke, Alpha Four Six, over."

"Roger, standby, over."

The three men took cover behind large stones and spindly trees while listening to Captain Daniel talk the helicopters onto their position. Ashton and Sather lay prone while Dublin took a kneeling position. The approaching hostiles were now three hundred meters away.

"Mark it, Nightmare Six, over."

Dublin took careful aim through the sights of his grenade launcher. He held his breath. A second later there was a soft thump as the grenade flew.

"On the way, over," reported Ashton.

Aadam Farid's volunteers, spread out over a length of one hundred meters and an equal depth, paused briefly when the tiny object landed in their midsts. The sound of the approaching helicopters had not concerned them. Their natural assumption was they would fire upon the men on the ridgeline rather than themselves. Seeing the little tumbling tube begin to emit yellow smoke convinced them otherwise. They began running for the treeline.

"Yellow smoke, Alpha Four Six," said Ashton. "Troops in the open one hundred west of the smoke, over."

"Roger, thirty seconds, over."

Seeing the rapidly approaching men, Ashton's eyes went wide. He felt his trigger finger twitch. Fortunately, it was not on the trigger itself. He glanced to his right.

"Get as close to these rocks as you can," he said. "Curl up tight. Hope the Americans don't hit us and let any stragglers bypass us."

Sather was closest to the rock formation. He rolled to the right as far as he could, his back slamming into one of the large stones. He then crawled into the junction of it and the other stones. Dublin, staying low, crawled on his hands and knees over to join him. Ashton was close behind him, crawling on knees and elbows. They packed as tightly to each other and to the stones as possible, trying for both maximum cover and concealment. The precious remaining seconds before the arrival of close air support ticked by just as desperate men began to break through the treeline.

The air above them erupted with the sound of rotors, belching 7.62mm miniguns, and 2.75 inch rockets. The shrieks of dying men and the hideously wounded assaulted their ears, as well. Bullets followed the fleeing men into the treeline, cutting down several of them as they ran. Chips of stone pelted the three concealed soldiers, one slicing Dublin's cheek.

"Shit," he cried involuntarily.

Some of the volunteers stood in the open firing up at the little birds. The three helicopters circled around, as if laughing at them, and fired another salvo of rockets at them. Several of the men were blown apart completely. Others lay screaming on the ground, one or more of their limbs lying meters away from the rest of their bodies. Those who still stood on their own volition scattered in a panic.

"That's it, Nightmare Six. Guns are dry for the first CAS run, over."

"Roger that," whispered Ashton before sitting up from his concealed position. When he did, his rifle was at his shoulder. Sather and Dublin did the same.

The three men slowly stood, carefully spreading out from the stone formation. They scanned the area for any survivors from the helicopters' attack. Dublin fired once; a wounded man clinging to a tree with one arm and weakly trying to aim his rifle with the other collapsed. The sound of the shot caused movement fifty meters in front of Ashton. Through the shadows, he could make out five dazed men beginning to bring their weapons to bear.

"Five to my front," he shouted, just before opening fire. One of the men screamed as he was hit twice in the chest. The man next to him made no sound; two rounds struck him on the right side of the nose, a spray of matter exiting the back of his skull. The other three fared no better. Dublin took down two and Sather got one before the shooting stopped.

They scanned for more targets. After several minutes, they lowered their weapons. They saw no immediate threats. Everyone was either dead, wounded, or had run away.

"Let's get moving," said Ashton, "before more show up."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

Tristan closed his eyes and turned his head away from the screen. It wasn't enough. He could still hear the sounds from the speakers. Those horrible sounds. He opened his eyes. Was his heart always pounding this hard?

"Excuse me," he said in what he hoped was a normal voice. He stood, walking to the door of the TOC. "Which way to the bathroom?"

Alan Weatheral pointed. "That way, on the left."

"Thanks." Tristan walked out. _I hope I didn't do that too fast._

He made a concerted effort to walk slowly down the hall to the bathroom. Each step was agonizing; his stomach was roiling. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. He started gulping with each alternate step. This was getting bad.

The last few steps before the door to the bathroom were too much. He took them at a run, storming through the door. His eyes searched desperately in the dimly lit room for the waste bin. Seeing it, he seized the oversized container and bent over it, allowing the contents of his stomach to empty into it. The choking flow continued for an eternity, it seemed, but it eventually ended.

With a final belch, he sagged against the rim of the bin. He spit acrid saliva on top of the pile of slop he had just deposited. The stench of it brought tears to his eyes. Or that was the excuse he would use. He leaned his slender body on the bin and let the tears flow.

"Maybe not the vomiting, but there's no shame in crying in front of your friends, you know?"

Tristan didn't have the energy to look up with a start. He dragged his head up from the bin and looked behind him. Johnny stood just inside the bathroom door, his hands in his pockets.

"You saw it?" Tristan croaked, his throat aching from the bile.

"I gave you a moment when you first came in. I knew what was happening. You needed privacy for that."

"Thanks." Tristan hung his head again. The tears were still flowing. Johnny stood quietly and waiting for him.

"Remember," Tristan finally said, "in Winchester, when you said that I might have started a war?"

"Yeah, I remember," Johnny replied softly.

"I didn't want to believe it back then. I still don't. But now it's true. People are dying because of me. There were people getting blown to pieces in there. I saw the brains of one of people David shot come out of the back of his head. It was awful."

"Yeah, it is."

"And David's men are dying, too. I saw that on the screens. One of them got shot in the throat just before he went into the valley. He was looking right at the man when it happened and he was so cold-blooded about it. He just turned his back him and left him there to die."

"There was nothing he could do, Tristan. The man was already dead. If he didn't leave, more men would die."

Tristan spun from the bin to face Johnny. "How do you know that?"

Johnny kept his expression passive and his hands in his pockets. "Because I've seen wounds like that. So has David. The man was dead in seconds. Going into that valley was the best way to keep more of his men from dying."

"By killing other people?"

"Yes," said Johnny flatly. Tristan stared at his feet, saying nothing. Finally, he turned and spat into the bin again.

"Remember those babies in the park in London?" asked Johnny. "Remember how beautiful they were? How fun it was to play with them?"

"Yeah," replied Tristan weakly. "Of course. That was a great day. They were nice babies."

"Those men David and his guys are fighting consider you, me, those babies, everyone in London, hell, everyone who is not like them, to be nothing but trash and not worthy of life. They would kill any of us, rape us, or sell us as slaves. We're not human to them.

"Do you know the word people in South Africa use to insult black people?"

Tristan shook his head.

"It's _kaffir_. It's very similar to when Americans say _nigger_ or when we say _wog_ over here. Well, in Arabic, there's a word they use, _kafir_ , which means infidel, but might as well have the same meaning as all those other slurs in their language. They use it that way. They talk about how it is good to kill a _kafir_ and how Allah rejoices whenever a _kafir_ is killed. These are words from their own clerics, Tristan, people they respect, people like Aadam Farid."

Johnny stopped talking, his eyes on Tristan's expression. There was a look a pure horror on the boy's face. Johnny took a step closer, a grin that could only be described as malevolent gradually spreading across his lips.

"I think I know what you're thinking, Tristan," he said as he began to pace. "How could this much venom come out of my mouth about Arabic people unless I had some kind of prior experience with them. Am I right?"

Johnny stopped pacing and looked into Tristan's eyes. The grin was gone. He waited for a response. Slowly, Tristan nodded.

"Yes," he whispered. "That's what I was thinking."

Johnny now stood near Tristan's left shoulder. He removed his left hand from his pocket and placed a finger on his left eyebrow.

"Do you see that?" he asked.

A two centimeter long scar, faded but still visible, could be seen just above the eyebrow. Tristan nodded.

"Before I was immortal, I was part of the Children's Crusade. To make that long story short, it didn't end well and seven of us became slaves to a man named Mahmoud Rahme. One of them was Nicholas, the boy who had organized the crusade. Rahme drowned him and five of the other boys in his fountain and threw their bodies over a cliff. He decided he wanted to break me and force me to convert to Islam.

"He beat me and raped me for ten days and I still didn't relent. He finally became enraged and threw a knife at me. It hit me here." Johnny pointed at his eye again.

"After that, while I was still bleeding from the knife, he had his men drag me down to a lower level where metalworking was done and they did this to me."

Johnny took a step back and held up his left hand, exposing his palm. On it, Tristan could clearly see the imprint of a coin burned into the skin. There were even tiny markings on a few of the pads of Johnny's fingertips where his fingers had involuntarily closed over the top over the coin when it had been placed there. Tristan's jaw dropped, his face draining of all color.

"They did that to you?"

"Yes," said Johnny, closing his hand and putting it back in his pocket. "Because I was different." Another dark grin formed on his face. "They then all took turns raping me until I was unconscious and threw me back in my cell." Johnny smirked darkly. "What a day, eh?"

Johnny paced the room again, still reminiscing. "It took another ten days or so, I don't really remember, for Rahme to finally lose his temper with me. He and nine important guests of his beat and raped me for hours and demanded I convert. I don't know if what I saw what real or not, but it was real enough to me at the time. I saw a kind man in simple robes smiling at me and putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. Somehow, I stood up and looked up at Rahme and said, "Never." Well, that made him angrier than ever. He hit me in the head with the end of a cane he carried. The handle was very heavy and crushed my skull. I fell to the floor and died seconds later. They threw me over the cliff just like they did Nicholas and the other boys."

Johnny stopped pacing and looked into Tristan's eyes. "So if you ever wonder why I scoff when I hear about a Islam being a religion of peace, Tristan, that's why. Just like any group of people, there might be some who are good, but most that I have met are just like Rahme. Just like Farid. Just like the people David and his men are fighting right now. They kill innocent people. They rape little boys and girls. They kill babies. And they rejoice over it. They think they are doing God's work. But the people from that moon cult are straight out of Hell, Tristan.

"David and Alyssa don't believe in Hell, but they believe evil exists. They also believe the root of Islam is the counter to their religion; it's evil. Like I said, we've met some Muslims who are good people, but so many are not. The people you saw in pieces on those screens are not. They are the ones who want to do what you recorded on your phone, blow up people on buses in London, kill people going about their normal lives. Why? Just because they're different from them. All because their scriptures tell them to kill us until we convert or become slaves. Do you get it now?"

Tristan nodded again. He was too stunned to speak, at first. He stared wide-eyed into Johnny's face for several silent moments before turning to spit one last time into the bin. At last, he could speak.

"And that's why they're fighting?"

Johnny's eyes dropped to his shoes at this point. He shuffled his feet and then looked back at Tristan.

"No. Maybe yesterday, when they were getting ready for the mission, but not now."

Tristan furrowed his brow, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Once you're in a fight," said Johnny, his voice soft again, "whether it's with swords or bullets, ideology doesn't matter anymore. All you care about is the people next to you. That's all. That's why you hear military people call each other "brother" all the time. It's like another family, but it's closer than that. Brother is the closest term we have for it, though. You might not like the person next to you but, by God, you will fight, kill, and die for that person. There is no closer relationship in the world, not even family."

Johnny pointed at the door again, stamping a foot for emphasis. "So what you saw on that screen in there, David calling in an air strike and causing the deaths of maybe fifty people, that wasn't for any high-minded ideals like saving travelers in London or even protecting you and me. It was to protect those men on the road above him and Darren and Devon next to him. That is all. He wasn't thinking about anything else when he did it. Yes, he loves us both but, at that moment, he loved those men far more. He'd kill a thousand more, and in far more brutal ways than you saw on that screen, if it meant keeping them safe."

Slowly, Johnny closed the distance between himself and Tristan. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder.

"He'd also do it if it meant protecting me. If it meant protecting you. That's what you do for the people you love."

Tristan hung his head. The tears were flowing again.

"It's just so horrible, seeing people die." His voice was almost a whisper.

"Yes, it is," replied Johnny, matching Tristan's volume. "But look at it from David's point of view. Or mine, maybe. What would you do to protect someone you love. Your parents are still alive in Florida, right?"

Tristan nodded slowly.

"What would you do if someone threatened them?"

"Anything," sniffed Tristan.

"Would you kill that person?"

"If I had to."

"What if a hundred people wanted to kill your parents and you could stop them, but the only way to do it was to kill them. Would you do it?"

Tristan paused. Johnny smiled at him. "I know. It's a hard question, especially for a modern boy to consider."

"I… I guess I'd have to but, but…"

"I know," said Johnny. "It's difficult to contemplate. Maybe people from more primitive times, if you want to call it that, like David and myself, have an easier time with it. For David, especially. Killing was just a way of life in his day. For you, it's much more of a moral dilemma. I know what I'm about to say is going to sound harsh but we're going to have to break that dilemma if you're going to survive. I don't mean by making you a heartless monster, just understand that sometimes killing is the only way you and the people you love can live."

Tristan sniffed and nodded again.

"How did you feel after you took Matthias Bauer's head?"

Tristan looked up at Johnny. His eyes were wide with shock. He stepped back, breaking contact with Johnny's hand.

"It was awful," he replied sharply. "I ran away and threw up in a trash can before I even looked for a set of clothes to steal. Even once I had new clothes, I found a place to hide and just sat and shook for the rest of the night. All I heard in my head was his screams when the bayonet went into his eye and that terrible gurgling sound from his neck while I was cutting through it.

"I had the most horrible nightmares that night and for weeks after that, too. He was following me and no matter where I ran he would be there. He was carrying his head in his hands. The head was talking and asking me why I killed him. I tried to explain that I did it because he wanted to kill me but he just cried and said all he wanted to do was play. Then he would ask again why I killed him."

Johnny's expression was understanding. Still in a soft voice, he asked, "Would you do it again if another Immortal came after you?"

"Yes," Tristan replied. "That's why I'm here, after all."

"Good, then on some level, you do understand what I'm saying to you."

Tristan's jaw dropped. Slowly, his shoulders sagged and he hung his head again. His body began to shudder as sobs began to rack their way through him. Johnny stepped forward and gently embraced him. Tristan gratefully accepted the gesture, his arms wrapping around Johnny's back.

"It's okay," Johnny whispered, feeling Tristan's tears wet his shoulder. "Take all the time you need."

xxxxxxxxxx

The TOC personnel watched at the three men in the valley struggled through the difficult terrain. Another air strike had come and gone, this one from fixed-wing aircraft. This time an even larger group of Farid's volunteers, perhaps as many as one hundred, had been caught moving in the open. Four American A-10 Thunderbolts had arrived and unleashed several of their AGM-65 Maverick air-to-surface missiles before they were in range to fire their 30mm autocannons.

The missiles caused massive chaos and panic within the large group of men, sending them running in all directions. The A10s appeared on the horizon, their cannons already buzzing, the 30mm depleted uranium shells kicking up massive clods of dirt in the ground and shredding men as the planes flew overhead. The A10s then flew off, waiting out of hearing for several minutes for the survivors to regroup and begin moving again. They then flew in from the opposite direction and fired the remainder of their missiles into the men.

By that time, those left standing numbered less than a dozen. Dublin lobbed a grenade from his launcher into the midst of the dazed men while Ashton and Sather fired at them from above from three hundred meters away. The survivors were so perplexed by the recent attack they actually ran toward the incoming fire in search of cover. This only made the job of picking them off that much easier for the three men. In two minutes, all of them were down. All that could be heard from below was the faint moaning of wounded men.

"It's amazing the havoc a few men with radios can inflict on the enemy," remarked Woodham.

"That's the power of the hand mic," agreed Alan Weatheral. "Or the helmet mic, in this case."

"They're way ahead of the convoy now," observed Jack. "It's going to be difficult for Captain Daniel to support them with CAS."

"Night is falling, too," said Boatwright. "That will make it even harder."

Woodham leaned over and nudged Boatwright's arm, a smile on his face. "Remember Đắk Tô?"

Boatwright chuckled and nodded. Vivia and Alyssa stared at them uncomprehendingly.

Weatheral smirked. "As an old fucker myself," he said, "by comparison, at least, I know a war story when one is about to begin. What's this one?"

Woodham sat forward in his seat, placing his elbows on his knees. He pointed at the screen as he began talking.

"Captain Asher - David - did something similar to this once before back in Vietnam. It was August 1967. Our A team had been sent up to Đắk Tô along with some of the Bahnar - Montagnard - soldiers we had trained to assist the team that was currently there. They had been experiencing an increased number of VC and ARVN attacks lately. We were brought up there as part of a search and destroy effort to relieve some of the pressure on the camp.

"There were just the twelve of us on the A team and twenty-four Bahnar. Captain Asher divided us into six six-man teams, two SF and four Bahnar. Since there was such an emphasis on body count in those days, he told us all to take an extra poncho liner in our rucksacks."

"Why?" asked Alyssa. "Please don't say it was for something like fingers or ears."

Woodham smiled at her. "I'll get to that in a minute. We went out for five days. Boat and I were on a team. Asher and Master Sergeant White," he pointed at the screen again, "were on a team together. It was complete pandemonium out in that jungle for a week, but no one touched the camp."

"They didn't come back at the end of the fifth day. We thought they had been killed. We were wrong. They came walking out of the woods two days later. All six of them. They were the only team out of the six the did not have at least one man get killed. Only one of the Bahnar was injured and he was only hurt lightly.

"When they came into the camp, they opened their rucksacks and took out their second poncho liners. They had them rolled up in the bottom of their packs. They were very heavy. Wrapped inside were the bolt assemblies of the AK-47 rifles of the men they had killed. When we counted them, there were, what was it, Boat?"

"Four hundred seventy-eight."

"Holy shit," said Jack. "Almost five hundred men in seven days?"

"That's right," said Woodham. "They were completely out of food, water, and ammo for their weapons and had resorted to using the enemy's weapons and ammo against them, but they were all alive and had the bolts to prove what they had done. I think Captain Asher lost at least ten pounds that week. Oh, add the six AKs they were using and it's at least four hundred eighty-four they killed. And that's without air support or artillery."

"And who knows how many weapons they weren't able to break down during those six days," Vivia added. "I'm sure there were times when they had to leave an ambush site quickly and didn't have time to take the bolts."

"Very likely," agreed Boatwright. "They got more in that week than the other teams combined. It was incredible."

"That is remarkable. Did David get any sort of award for that mission?" Alyssa asked.

"Boat and I and one other guy on the team, Steinmetz, I think, each got a bronze star with valor device for it. White got a silver star. Captain Asher made sure of that. Master Sergeant White put him in for a distinguished service cross for the outstanding things he did during that week. The paperwork died somewhere at division level. He ended up getting nothing for it. Not that he really cared, to be honest about it."

Jack chuckled at that. "I saw his 2-1 form in his chronicles. He had two of them by the time he left Vietnam anyway. One while he was a team leader and another when he was a company commander."

Tristan and Johnny came back into the TOC. Johnny had his arm around Tristan who looked exhausted, his eyes red. Johnny led the boy back to his seat on Alyssa's left side. He waited while Tristan sat. Alyssa welcomed him with a one-armed embrace and placed his head on her shoulder. She kept her arm around him. Only then did Johnny sit.

"I'm not that familiar with American awards," said Weatheral, after the boys were situated. "What is the distinguished service cross?"

"Do you know what the Medal of Honor is?" Jack asked him.

"Yes, I know that one. It's the highest military award you have."

"Right. The distinguished service cross is the highest award for valor except the Medal of Honor."

"Now I see," said Weatheral. "Impressive." Turning back to the monitors, he added, "Let's just hope their luck holds up as well here as it did back in Vietnam." The look on Johnny and Tristan's faces showed they wanted to ask what he meant, but they said nothing.

The three NextGen men were moving through the steep terrain of the valley, sometimes using the trunks of trees for balance as they walked. Their weapons were held with the buttstocks against their shoulders, the barrels at their opposite hip, a position known as the low-ready. It allowed an experienced user to quickly bring the weapon to a firing position, when needed, in less than a second. This position, along with constant reflexive fire - or quick shooting - drills vastly decreased the response time and increased the lethality of soldiers engaging targets over short distances, up to fifty meters. Most engagements, particularly in urban environments, tended to be within fifty meters or less. Even in rural environments, with its longer engagement ranges, the technique was beneficial.

Sather glanced up the valley, spotting eight of Farid's volunteers rapidly descending the slope two hundred meters ahead of them.

"Contact left," he reported softly.

The others noticed the men as soon as he said it. Ashton and Sather ran another ten meters and went to a kneeling position behind a handy set of large stones. Dublin walked to his right, taking aim with his grenade launcher.

"Looks like a clear shot," he breathed quietly. "Take a shot at them," he said. They fired, each scoring a hit. Five of the volunteers sought cover while the other three looked in vain for the source of the shooting. Dublin squeezed the trigger of his grenade launcher. The 40mm grenade soared toward the men. Dublin grinned as it flew, then frowned when he saw his error. Too late to worry about hit, he ducked down behind the stones with the other two. The grenade impacted a tree fifty meters in front of the men, wasting its detonation with a deafening bang.

The three NextGen soldiers rose up and placed their rifles on the stones. They fired rapid single shots at the volunteers, hitting one immediately in the hip. His screams echoed across the valley as he fell. The two standing volunteers finally crouched low, as well. Ashton and the others paused, saving their ammo until they had a better shot. Dublin reloaded his grenade launcher.

Three men could not stay in one place for long and hope to survive. Ashton, kneeling on the far left of the three, had just turned to face up the valley and was about to suggest a flanking maneuver against the position in front of them when they saw movement. The volunteers behind cover shouted a loud "Allahu Akbar" as they stood, firing from the hip and charging at their attackers.

"What the hell made them so fucking brave all of sudden?" shouted Sather over the shooting as he took down one of the onrushing men.

The answer came in a form none of them wanted. Incoming fire from above them in the valley announced its presence. This was no rifle fire; though it sounded the same. Ashton glanced up at the valley and saw the full reality of their problem. To the left, one-hundred fifty meters up the valley, was a man with an AK-47. To the right, framed by a massive outcropping of rock, was a machine gunner with an RPK light machine gun on a bipod with a seventy-five round drum attached beneath it. An assistant gunner with more drums of ammunition lay nearby. He saw all of this as several bullets hit the stone in front of him and three more punched him in the chest, knocking him back. Sather and Dublin ducked behind the stones.

"Fuck," Ashton coughed as he hit the ground. Even though the body armor he wore had prevented the bullets from penetrating, the force of their impact still took his breath away.

"Fuck," said Jack. "They're in a crossfire. Not good."

"Darren," they heard Ashton call. "RPK, one hundred fifty meters to my one o'clock. AK to my eleven. Sather, can you hold?"

"Got it," replied Sather, crawling to the right and resuming his fire on the charging men.

The rock formation behind which the three NextGen were hidden formed an L-shape. The longer side of the L faced the machine gunner and AK gunner. The shorter end faced the charging men. This was fine for incoming fire from the front. The problem was a lack of overhead cover. If Dublin and Ashton were not able to knock out the machine gunner quickly, he would ventilate all of them.

Ashton gathered himself beside his stone, his weapon at his shoulder. The machine gunner's fire stopped. He was reloading.

"Now," shouted Ashton. He rose into a sitting position while flipping the selector on his weapon to automatic fire, the sights of his rifle at his eye. The AK gunner opened fire as soon as he saw movement. Unlike many of the men in Farid's volunteers, who fired from the hip, this man actually had his rifle at his shoulder and was using his sights. The burst struck Ashton in the chest and shoulder, slamming him to the ground again.

"Bastard," he cursed, pushing himself back up with one hand and taking aim again. The gunner paused in obvious shock at seeing the man he knew he had hit sitting up again. He pulled the rifle to his shoulder again. Ashton fired first. Ashton ducked back behind his stone. Above him, he heard the cacophony of Dublin's grenade exploding.

"Ooh," said Woodham. "He got him from the neck to the nose with that burst."

"And that grenade landed right behind the gunner. The rock face behind them would have mirrored the concussion right back at them. Those two didn't have a chance." Boatwright grinned.

"Now they just have to worry about those guys charging them," said Jack.

"Sather got two of them. There are two left," observed Weatheral.

"He just had to roll behind the rocks," said Vivia. "The incoming fire was too close."

"Did David and Darren notice that?" asked Johnny.

"I don't know," said Alyssa. "They were kind of busy."

At that moment, they could see from the angle of Sather's helmet camera that he had rolled onto his back. He could clearly see the two volunteers swinging around the side of the L and raising their weapons in his direction. Ayssa gasped. Automatic fire from the other sides of the stones stitched the two men in the chest and neck. Rounds knocked their weapons aside, punched into their faces, and cut them down like puppets losing their strings.

"Come on, Dev," said Dublin, as he and Ashton reloaded. "This is no time to lie down on the job." Sather flipped him the V.

"Ah," said Weatheral. "I'm glad to see our American friend has picked up a little bit of British culture while he's been here."


	25. Make You Hurt

"Full of broken thoughts  
I cannot repair  
Beneath the stains of time  
The feelings disappear"

"Hurt" - Written by Trent Reznor / Performed by Johnny Cash

29 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

"The moon and stars smile upon on us," whispered Aadam Farid, "lighting the way for the warriors of Allah. Like they did when the Prophet, peace be upon him, received the divine inspiration from Jibrīl at Hira, so they shine now as men fight for the truth made known to him. The revealed truth saved many a pagan man and led him to fight for earthly booty in this life and the superior martyr's paradise in the next. For the Prophet, peace be upon him, said, "A single endeavor of fighting in Allah's cause in the afternoon or in the forenoon is better than all the world and whatever is in it.""

"You speak well, Aadam," stated Shinwari, the reflections of tracers and explosions from the valley below glinting in his eyes. "If I didn't know better, I would almost think you rode with the Prophet, peace be upon him, yourself."

Farid chuckled at Shinwari's comment. _But, in this case, my friend, your instincts would be correct, for that is exactly what I did all those centuries ago. I was felled by a Meccan cavalryman's javelin in the Uhud Valley fourteen hundred years ago._

"You could say I have some connection to him, my friend," he said. "I was born in Medina. Of course, it seems like centuries ago now."

"These lands are timeless, Aadam. They have drunk men's blood for millennia before us and will after us until Allah's judgement comes. What are centuries to these lands?"

"Sage words, my friend," agreed Farid.

"But words," said Asfand Dhanial, standing behind the two men, "are not what our men on the mountain and in the valley need right now." He pointed at the continuing explosions illuminating the distance. "They need victory. Otherwise, at this rate, they will all die tonight."

Farid turned to face Dhanial. He grinned at the village elder, his white teeth bright in the moonlight. "My dear Asfand, you speak as if Thanatos himself were coming up that road instead of a convoy of infidels."

"Who?" asked Dhanial.

Farid laughed aloud. "Forgive me for injecting a little Greek mythology into my rhetoric. I should have said Azrail - _Malak al-Maut_ (Angel of Death) - himself. Sometimes my western education gets the better of me."

Dhanial spit and kicked the dirt. "I have no time for paganism," he scoffed. "The men I have recruited for you have no time for it, either. The _kafir_ are getting closer. How do you propose to defeat them?"

Farid's grin spread wider as he spread his hands. "We cannot hope to compete with the technology of the _kafir_ here," he said. "We defeat them with numbers, cleverness, perseverance, and Allah's will. Besides, we have another problem to solve long before we have to worry about _kafir_ in our faces."

Dhanial frowned. "What is that?"

Farid lowered his hands and began to pace. "How," he said calmly, almost soothingly, "did they locate us in the first place?"

Dhanial's face went ashen. In the moonlight, it appeared ghostlike. Farid laughed again.

"Did you not consider that?"

"The _kafir_ come around here all the time. They have a base just a few kilometers from here. Why is this different?"

"Ah, but those are Americans," clarified Farid. "These are British soldiers coming down that road. They may be in American vehicles, but those are British uniforms they are wearing."

"How do you know? Can you see through stone and across several kilometers?"

"Don't be foolish, Asfand," snapped Farid, pointing at a nearby man with a field radio by his side. "We have men on the top of the mountain and in the valley sending reports by radio to that man over there. I know everything that is happening on the road, on the mountain, and in the valley."

"Forgive me," said Dhanial. "My frustration is getting the better of me."

Farid took a step back. His eyes studied the old man for several long moments. He let out a breath and then smiled. "I forgive you, Asfand. These are trying times." He put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Let us focus on the problem at hand and find the traitor in our midst. Then we will make all the _kafir_ hurt."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"I'm starting to see how Brigadier Ashton got the sobriquet Nightmare," said Jack. "Farid's men must be quaking in their boots right now."

"I'd say you're right, Jack," confirmed Weatheral, sipping his tenth cup of coffee.

Since nightfall, Dublin, Ashton, and Sather had been using their night vision gear to their advantage. They had slung their weapons across their backs and had been stalking Farid's volunteers using only knives and, occasionally, suppressed pistols. Thus far, they had managed to trick the volunteers three times into opening fire on each other for extended periods, increasing the confusion and casualties while quietly extricating themselves from the danger zone.

They stopped to rest behind an outcropping of stones. All of them sipped thirstily from the Camelbaks on their backs. Dublin pulled three Werthers Originals hard candies from his thigh cargo pocket, placed one between his teeth, wrapper and all, and pulled the twisted end with two fingers to free the candy from its wrapper. He then tucked the wrapper back in his pocket and offered the other two to his friends on either side of him. They both nodded gratefully and accepted the sweet.

"I forgot how good these were," whispered Sather.

"Pepperidge Farm remembers," muttered Dublin under his breath. The men chuckled softly at his comment.

Sather waved them into silence. They listened. Feet scraping the rocky ground and whispered voices could be heard in the night air. Distance was difficult to judge. To be safe, the NextGen men slowly unslung their rifles.

Sather eased his head around the stone for two seconds and then back. In the moonlight, he used hand signals to communicate what he saw. Two men were fifty meters away and closing. He thought they would go on either side of the stone. Three more were two hundred meters away. The others nodded. Ashton leaned his rifle against the rock and drew his knife, holding it ready for his man to appear. Sather did the same. Both men pressed their backs to the stone and waited.

Sather's man rounded the side of stone first. As he came even with the Watcher, Sather's right arm slid behind him, wrapped around the man's neck, and pulled as Sather pivoted to his right. The man was now pinned to Sather's chest and choking. Sather's left hand slammed the butt of the knife into the brachial artery on the left side of the man's neck, stunning him. Sather stepped back, out of sight, and cut the man's throat. The only sound was the man's weapon falling to the ground.

On Ashton's side, there was a similar technique but even less noise. His man walked alongside Ashton, also not seeing him. Ashton's left arm slipped behind him, only Ashton seized hold of the man's larynx, applied twisting, crushing force, and pulled the man into his chest. At the same moment, he slid the blade of his knife down vertically into the man's subclavian artery, slowly lowering him and the weapon still in his hands to the ground.

"Do I even want to know what David just did?" asked Tristan.

"It's a good technique to know. I could show you if you want," said Woodham. "It's very simple. He did it perfectly."

"Maybe later."

Back on the monitor, Sather was peering around the rock again. He saw a bearded face one hundred fifty meters away staring with confusion into the darkness.

"Kasim?" whispered the bearded man. "Baseer?" The man glanced at his two compatriots for guidance, concern on his face. He repeated the names a little louder this time. Sather eased back around the stone. To his left, Dublin held a grenade in his hand. Sather and Ashton nodded; he pulled the pin.

On the other side of the stone, the worried volunteer had finally panicked. With a cry of fear, he pulled the trigger on his rifle, unleashing a burst of bullets in the direction of the stone. His partners did the same. They held the triggers down for a full second and a half. The shooting stopped when their magazines ran dry.

Dublin stepped around the stone. Flipping the spoon from his grenade, he faced the three men as they began reloading their AKs. He smiled . "Good evening, fellas." he said, as he rolled the grenade in their direction. " _As-Salaam-Alaikum."_ (Peace be unto you.)

Throwing in the traditional Muslim greeting distracted the three men just long enough for them not to notice the object he had tossed at them. Two seconds later, it did not matter anyway. Two seconds after that, the three men who had killed them were no longer there.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004  
Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Zarang Mirza lay in the darkness of his hut. His wife, Ariana, was asleep next to him. He did not hear her breathing. He did not even hear the muffled karumphs of the explosions or the constant shooting, all of which was getting closer. He was deep within his mind, reliving a recent memory of that morning.

As he did every day, Zarang had pushed his cart down to the slivers of arable land near Asadabad. The American base was also nearby. That morning, however, the monotony of the day's work had been broken. Zarang had just set his cart down and was selecting a tool from within it when a stranger in traditional garb paused next to him.

"We heard you, Zarang," whispered the stranger. "In two hours, go home, feigning illness, and prepare Ariana and yourself to leave. We're coming today." With those words, the man took a drink from Zarang's water jug - as if that were his reason for stopping - and walked away. Zarang never saw his face. He only saw his hands; a bit paler than Zarang's, more like a westerner.

Zarang had obeyed the man's words. He had left early, pushing his cart the nine kilometers back to his home. Ariana had been obviously surprised to see him back so soon. Zarang claimed to have noticed the early signs of a migraine as he had been working and left and said they had worsened as he traveled. He spent several hours pretending to be wracked by the pain of the massive headache, his eyes covered by a dark cloth, and even dozed off at one point.

Now he lay awake, the exhilaration of escape coursing through him. Should he tell Ariana now or wait? He decided to wait a little longer. He rolled onto his side away from Ariana and crawled to his side of the hut. Reaching under his pillows, he extracted his satchel. He emptied its contents and placed the two passports inside it. He then placed the money he had earned as an observer within it. He concealed everything under the pillows again, the satchel last, and smoothed everything down. In the moonlight, he could see everything looked normal again. Good. All he had to do now was wait.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

Weatheral, Jack, and the others were ingesting copious amounts of coffee trying to stay awake. Tristan and Alyssa had fallen asleep in their chairs. Johnny was wavering on the edges of consciousness. The others were alternating between the caffeine and standing to stay awake. They kept their eyes on the green-tinged images on the monitors. The heavy breathing of the three men over the speakers matched their own stress.

Rifle fire crackled on the speakers. Johnny snapped to wakefulness as the chaos began. Tristan and Alyssa stirred, as well. They heard Ashton curse vehemently and saw his display drop behind cover while Dublin and Sather shouted to each other. They began returning fire at the muzzle flashes. Ashton's rifle was lying two meters from him. He crawled to it and pulled it to him. Through the camera, they could see his examine it.

"Fuck," he barked. "They hit the rifle. Barrel's bent," he called to the others. He dropped it next to him and pulled his Glock 17 from his holster.

"Not good," announced Dublin.

"How many?" asked Ashton.

"Eight," replied Sather.

"Shit," seethed Ashton, leaning around the far side of his stone. He saw two men running toward them from that side, trying a flanking maneuver. Ashton perched his pistol on top of the rock and opened fire when they were thirty meters away. The rear man fell with two bullets in his chest. The closest man received three rounds rising from his stomach to his sternum. He slumped to a sitting position, a look a pure shock on his face, before a fourth shot went through his eye.

"Gonna try for their rifles," called Ashton.

"Go," shouted Dublin, firing a grenade. Sather followed up with several bursts.

Ashton crawled from behind the rocks toward the two bodies. No sooner had he cleared cover then he was driven back by heavy fire. He cursed again.

"So much for that," he reported.

"Find something," shouted Dublin. "You can't help us with a Glock."

"You got this?" Ashton asked.

"Not much choice," said Dublin, firing a burst at the remaining attackers.

Ashton leaned against the stone, taking a breath. He blinked, changed magazines in his pistol, and reholstered it. Reaching into his ammo carrier, he pulled the remaining magazines for his SA80 from it and dropped them next to Dublin. "Give some to Sather," he shouted. Dublin nodded and kept shooting.

Ashton got on his belly and crawled behind the other two. Keeping low to the ground, he was out of sight of the attackers. He crawled for fifty meters, coming up to a decline in the terrain. He craned his head over it. Down the slope, about one hundred meters down, he saw four armed men standing near a few decaying mud huts. Breathing another curse, he crawled down the slope.

As he neared the men, he could faintly hear their chatter over the gunfire above. They were debating whether to join the fight or remain where they were. One of them said it was up to a man named Jandol, their leader apparently.

There were four mud huts. All of them looked like they had not been occupied in years. Trees surrounded the area with the huts having been built in a small clearing. The moonlight illuminated the clearing while the trees were mostly bathed in shadow. Ashton crawled into the trees and slowly stood. He watched the men, drawing his knife.

"He's not going to try to take on four guys with a knife, is he?" asked Tristan.

"No, no," said Woodham. "He just needs to wait until that guy closest to the trees," Woodham pointed at the monitor, "comes a little bit closer, take him out, and then he has a rifle again. That's all he wants. Life gets a lot easier for him then. It's just a waiting game. He does need to get a little closer to the edge of the treeline himself, though."

Ashton was moving. His target was impatient, constantly glancing up at the sound of gunfire as he paced back and forth. Two of the other men were facing that way, was well, chatting about it. The fourth seemed indifferent, his back to the trees. Nature was also calling the man closest to Ashton. He kept squirming as he walked. Ashton grinned.

At last, the closest man could wait no longer. He called out to his brethren, telling them what he was about to do. They acknowledged him. The man began to walk toward the treeline. Ashton took a few careful steps forward also.

Ashton could clearly see his target thanks to the night vision goggles he wore. He just needed to close the remaining few meters of distance. The man had stopped, seemingly satisfied with his progress into the trees, which was hardly at all, just at the very edge. Ashton took one more step.

When things go wrong, it is never one little thing. It is always a major fuck up. As Ashton moved forward, his foot nudged a small rock, knocking it aside. The sound it made was just enough to cause the man to look up. He saw a demon-faced figure in front of him, the color of the trees. Superstitious by nature, the man screamed and dropped his rifle. It clattered to the ground. Behind him, his comrades asked loudly what was wrong.

"Damn it," cursed Ashton again, lunging forward. He plunged the blade of his knife into the hollow of the man's throat and stepped passed him. The movement itself had revealed his presence. He was committed now.

"Oh, shit," said Jack. "This isn't good."

The two men who had called out to the dying man were ten meters away to Ashton's right, standing side by side. The last man was thirty meters away, his back to the Immortal. He was already turning at the sound of the man's scream. The men to the right were raising their weapons at the sight of a figure emerging from the trees.

Ashton drew his pistol as he stepped from the treeline. He was at a trot at first, but it became a run after a few steps. Extending his arm, he fired at the men to his right. One shot hit the first man in the stomach while the second hit the other high in the chest. Neither were mortally wounded but the shock of the injuries were enough to drive them to the ground.

Ashton kept running. His last target was spinning to the left, his rifle rising as his spun. Ashton stopped in front of him, his left hand catching the upper hand guard of the weapon while his right fired two rounds into the man's face. At the same instant, Ashton caught sight of three men emerging from the last of the mud huts, AK rifles in their hands. Ashton kept a firm grip on the dead man's weapon as he fell, his right hand tucking his pistol back in its holster.

The men fired at Ashton or where he used to be. He was already moving laterally to his right, rotating the AK-47 around in his hands so the barrel faced forward. He now had two men of the three in a line so the one in the rear could not fire without hitting the one in front. The third man was moving to the left, trying for a better shot at his enemy. Ashton fired a burst at the front man. He crumpled back into the second man. Kneeling and traversing his rifle to the left, the Minoan triggered a long lateral burst at the moving Afghan. The man screamed and fell to the ground. Ashton stood and aimed at the man pinned to the ground by his dead comrade. He was still struggling to free himself from his burden. Ashton walked a line of fire across his head. He then turned and fired two bursts into the men he had shot with his pistol earlier.

Ashton lowered the rifle and drew his pistol again, raising it to eye level as his scanned the area for more of the enemy. Unlike the M16 series, SA80 series, and other rifles like them, the AK rifles do not lock back on an empty chamber when they run out of ammunition. Ashton had no way of knowing how much ammo was left in the magazine but he was sure it was nearly expended. He returned to the body of the man from whom he had taken the weapon. Still scanning the area, he knelt by the body and relieved it of its ammo vest and magazines. He donned the vest. He then reloaded the rifle and added more magazines to the carrier from the other bodies. No other enemy appeared. Ashton then returned to the first man at the edge at the treeline and retrieved his knife. Above him, the sounds of gunfire had gone silent.

"Nightmare Seven, this is Six. Status? Over."

"Good to go. You? Over."

"New equipment acquired. Come down here. Over."

"Roger. Over"

"Holy shit," said Jack. "I wouldn't have believed that if I saw it in a Hollywood movie. Seeing it in real life is incredible."

Vivia smiled at them. "That's David Ashton for you. He does unbelievable things on a battlefield."

"Just like Johnny's Jashobeam story," said Alyssa.

Woodham's eyes widened. "The eight hundred men with a spear?"

"Or three hundred," said Johnny, "if you read Samuel."

"How do you say nightmare in Hebrew?" asked Jack.

" _Siyut,"_ said Alyssa.

"So he's always been one, for thousands of years," Jack stated, sitting in his chair again and sipping his coffee.

"Only to his enemies," said Vivia, grinning. "He's great if you're on his side."

Johnny countered her. "No, he's still kind of scary. I know he says he hates it and all, but it's almost like he's too good at killing. Once he really gets going, it seems like it's the most natural thing in the world for him." He focused on the screen again. "Like he's some kind of god of death or something," he whispered.

Jack sat quietly in his chair and kept his eyes on the monitors. _If you only knew, little guy,_ he thought to himself. Snippets of the chronicles he had read came flooding back to him. The thousands - perhaps millions - killed by Devesh and his armies, the horrors inflicted over a huge empire over two hundred years, the hundreds of Immortals slain during that time in the belief the Gathering had come and they would destroy a tyrant or die trying, the final toppling of Devesh and the total eradication of his memory from that part of the world. Jack shivered at the thought. There had been great evil and many butchers of men in the world since 600 BCE, but few had ever come close to the level of Devesh, the god of gods.

Sather and Dublin had joined Ashton in the clearing now. Sather's expression could clearly be seen on Dublin's helmet display. It matched the amazement many in the TOC had. Ashton was explaining why he had gathered them there.

"I want to know why seven men were guarding this place and not fighting us," he finished. Pointing at the last hut, the best of the four, he added, "It seems to have something to do with that hut. Let's check it."

They nodded and moved toward the hut. They stacked in a line by its entrance. Dublin peeled off from the end of the line and came up alongside Ashton, touching a grenade at his belt. Ashton reached out, touching his hand to stall him, cocking his head to the side quizzically. Dublin listened as well. He looked into Ashton's face, mouthing, "What the hell?"

Ashton shook his head, signalling he did not know, either. He craned his head slowly around the threshold of the hut's doorless entryway. Dublin tensed, ready for a shot to be fired. None came. To his surprise, Ashton rose from his crouch and walked brazenly into the hut, his weapon lowered. A small cry could be heard within.

"What the hell?" Dublin said aloud.

"It's a child," gasped Alyssa.

"He can't be more than eight or nine," said Jack.

"Maybe even a year or two older," corrected Boatwright. "The nutritional intake and other lifestyle characteristics tend to make them appear younger. Just like in Vietnam."

The boy was huddled in the far corner of the hut, his eyes wide in terror at the sight of the tall creature with the distorted face. Ashton knelt before the boy, whispering softly. He knelt in front of the boy and took out a red-lensed flashlight. He switched it on. Setting it next to the boy, he slowly lifted up his goggles to reveal his face. He smiled at the boy and whispered again in Pashtu, _"Chi tasu sam ye."_ (You are safe.)

The boy stared at him with wide eyes. He was very small with long dark hair down to his shoulders. His face had a slightly effeminate kind of beauty to it. He reached out slowly and touched Ashton's knee, as if confirming he was real.

" _Num de tsuh dai?"_ (What is your name?) the boy whispered softly, his voice still tinged with fright. His dark eyes flickered back to Ashton's face, quivering.

"The poor thing is terrified," observed Alyssa.

"He just saw three people shot to death right in front of him. And we don't know what was happening before the brigadier went into that hut, either," replied Weatheral. "Now there are three men with guns who look more like space aliens than men standing before him. It's completely surreal for him." Weatheral shifted his feet. "By the way, Hastings, get a translation of what they're saying on the screen, would you?"

"On it, Sergeant Major," said James Hastings, one of NextGen's language experts. He donned a pair of headphones and prepared to transcribe what he heard.

"Daveed," whispered Ashton in response to the boy's question. Behind him, Dublin and Sather knelt just inside the hut's entrance facing outward, pulling security. _"Au taso?"_ (And you?)

"Balach," replied the boy quietly, as if he were ashamed of the name. He touched Ashton's knee again, the pattern of his clothing apparently fascinating to him. Ashton glanced down. The boy's nails were painted blue. Ashton gently took the boy's hand in his, examining the fingertips carefully.

"Bacha bazi," explained Balach simply. Ashton nodded. It made sense now. The painted fingernails, the pretty face, the finer clothing than most Afghans wore, even the name with its meaning "one with beautiful locks of hair," it all pointed to one thing.

Ashton returned the boy's hand slowly and then reached into a side pocket of his gear. He pulled out a Snickers bar, unwrapped it, and offered it to the child. The fact it may have melted somewhat and then reformed in the cooler night air did not matter. Balach's face split into a grin at the sight of the candy.

" _Manana,"_ (Thank you,) he said gratefully, taking the bar in his tiny hands. He took a bite and smiled happily, chocolate staining his teeth. Ashton smiled again and patted him on the head. He waited while the boy ate the bar, letting him enjoy the small luxury in silence. All the while, the boy's eyes wandered from Ashton, to Dublin, to Sather, and back, mesmerised.

Ashton looked around, as well. Unlike the other huts, this one was well maintained. There were pillows and blankets on the floor. A small wardrobe cabinet sat in one corner, a full-length mirror on one door. The opposite corner had a low table with a set of plates, cups, and silverware. There were even cloth napkins folded in squares at the center of the table. Looking back at Balach, Ashton could see that his skin and hair were very clean.

"Darren, is there anything behind this hut?" Ashton asked conversationally.

"One moment," Dublin said, standing. Two minutes later, Dublin's voice came over the radio. "Yeah, there's a slit trench downhill fifty meters away, and up here by the wall is a stool with a wash basin, soap, and wash rags. Here's a toothbrush in a case, tooth powder, floss. There's also a bucket and several water cans, most of them full. They took care of this boy."

Balach had finished his chocolate bar. He looked up at Ashton with a grin and wide eyes, thanking him again. Ashton smiled. He offered Balach another bar. As the boy ate, Ashton waved a hand around the hut. Speaking in Pashtun, he began to ask questions.

"This is very nice. Who paid for all this?"

Balach's face fell. He continued to slowly chew his candy bar for a while before he answered. "Asfand Dhanial. I belong to him. I have to take care of myself so I look nice when he wants me to dance for him or…do other things."

Balach pointed at the bodies beyond the doorway. "Those men and others bring me food and water and clothes and other things. Someone comes everyday to help me exercise and learn new dances. Sometimes I get a teacher with books. I know it's time to dance when they bring someone to cut my hair or put makeup on my face." Balach's eyes dropped to the floor. "If he asks me if I was extra careful during my bath, I know I have to do more than dance that day."

"Bastards," muttered Weatheral.

"What is it?" asked Jack.

"That phrase the boy uttered a moment ago, bacha bazi. It means, "boy play," in Dari. In southeast Asia, it's now considered immodest for women to dance in public so they have young boys dress provocatively and dance in their place. Sometimes, they're even put on makeup and women's clothing. In some situations it even leads to sexual slavery and child prostitution. It's not a new thing. It's been going on for centuries.

"Anyway, now we know why those men were at the huts. They were guarding this guy, Asfand Dhanial's, plaything. This boy, Balach, is his dancing boy and his sex slave. They've had him hidden because bacha bazi is technically illegal in Afghanistan although it's not really enforced. Just about every local warlord in the region has one or more boys at his side as a status symbol."

Vivia scowled at the monitor. "That poor boy. He had the misfortune of being born into a culture that views women as broodmares and boys as sex toys. And then he happened to be born pretty; what a curse in that place."

Ashton's voice came over the radio again. "Nightmare Three, this is Nightmare Six. Are you still receiving the video transmission, over?"

Weatheral picked up his microphone. "Roger that, Six, over."

"Get all necessary resources moving to get this boy out of the country by the time we go wheels up. Break. I don't care who has to be kicked out of bed or how much it costs. Use my money, not NextGen's. How copy? Over."

Weatheral turned to look at the others in the room. He saw a mixture of confusion, concern, and satisfaction. As far as himself, he chose satisfaction. "That's a good copy, Nightmare Six. We'll make it happen. Over."

Weatheral set the microphone back on the table and faced the room. "Cramer," he said to one of the ops assistants, "call both the legal and accountancy directors for both NextGen and the brigadier's personal staff. Also contact the office of the Foreign Minister. Like he said, if you have to get them out of bed, do so. You're the lead for this working group. Make it happen. If they give you any guff, call me."

"Roger that, Sergeant Major."

"In fact, Sergeant Major," said a voice in the back of the room. "Let me do that."

Weatheral's eyes swung to the far corner of the TOC. He began to laugh. He had forgotten about one of the other non-Watcher / non-Immortal class one personnel allowed in the TOC. That man had been sitting quietly in the back for over six hours, observing things and letting the operations sergeant major do his job: Colonel Niles Harrington. He stood as he spoke.

"Do forgive me for countermanding you like that, Sergeant Major. It's most uncouth, I know."

"No, sir," said Weatheral. "It is your right." Weatheral smirked conspiratorially. "You also happen to know the Foreign Minister, if memory serves."

Colonel Harrington returned the smirk. "That, it does, Sergeant Major. That it does. Besides, if Cramer leaves the TOC, the only other person who knows how to operate that god awfully complicated coffee machine is you, Sergeant Major, and your coffee tastes like watered down dog shit."

The rest of the room dissolved into laughter. Even Weatheral allowed himself to chuckle along with the group. Andrea Cramer, somewhat unsure how to react, laughed but still tried to make herself just a little bit smaller in her chair. She couldn't remove the trace of a smile from her lips, though. Before the laughter died down, Colonel Harrington made a hand signal to Weatheral to let him know he would be in his office and left the TOC, a smile on his face, as well.

Weatheral had a thought cross his mind. He picked up the microphone again. He waited several minutes for other communication between other parts of the NextGen team to conclude before he began.

"Nightmare Six, this is Nightmare Three, over."

"This is Nightmare Six, over."

"We have Nightmare Five working on it, break. We could use the boy's full name and any other particulars, over."

"Roger. Wait. Out." The TOC personnel heard him call to the other NextGen teams. "Alpha Three Six, this is Nightmare Six, over."

While he waited for a reply, he called over to Dublin, who had resumed his place at the doorway. "Darren, work out our grid, please."

"On it."

"This is Alpha Three Six, over."

"What is your position and status, over?" Dublin moved over to kneel next to Ashton as the report was received. Ashton held the flashlight over the map and notepad as the Irishman worked. Balach watched with wide eyes as the strange men played with their helmets and the flashlight. He could not hear the radio traffic but could tell they were listening to something on the speaker on the side of the helmet. He sat up on his knees and leaned closer to get a better look at the map in the dim light.

"We're moving along the road, break. Taking a bruising. Three NextGen dead, seven wounded, break. Four ANA dead, six wounded, break. Mountaintop ANA report heavy contact, break. Five dead, nine wounded, break. ANA are lions among men, sir, break. Current position follows." Dublin wrote down the grid coordinates as the captain recited them. He then plotted the position on the map. He pointed out the NextGen position on the road to Ashton with the tip of his pencil and then their position in the valley.

Ashton nodded. The plan was working. The NextGen convoy was slightly more than one kilometer from the village. They were also not far from Ashton's tiny detachment. The abandoned mud huts were on the village's western side of the Kunar River tributary. It was just under one and a half kilometers from the village, far enough to be out of sight but not too far to make supporting it with provisions impossible. As the crow flew, the NextGen convoy was less than three quarters of a kilometer north of Ashton's position.

"I need a four-man security detachment, at least one of which is a NextGen man, at my location as soon as possible, break. They will be guarding a nine-year old boy, break. We will extricate him along with the other two from the village. My grid is as follows." Ashton looked over at Dublin's notepad and read the ten-digit coordinate Dublin identified with his pencil tip. "How copy? Over."

"Good copy, Nightmare Six. Will detach those men as we're able, over."

"Understood, Alpha Three Six. Thank you. Nightmare Six out."

Ashton checked his watch. 03:49. Now the waiting could begin. But there was something they could do in the meantime.

"Let's hide these bodies," he suggested. "We can stash them in one of the other huts. If others come by, perhaps they'll think they've gone to join the fight and left the boy on his own."

Ashton turned his head back to Balach. The boy was watching him with great interest. The interest turned to confusion when Ashton stood. "We'll be right back," Ashton said to him. "We just need to make things safer outside."

Balach stood now, rocking back from his knees to his ankles and then to his feet. Both men were impressed by his dexterity. An instant later, the boy had closed the distance between himself and Ashton. He clutched the acquired webgear the Minoan wore imploringly.

" _Na, na,"_ (No, no,) he pleaded.

Dublin chuckled. "Even if I didn't speak Pashtun, that's pretty obvious. No problem. Dev and I will handle it. How many?"

"Seven. Thank you."

"No problem." Dublin ruffled Balach's long hair. _"Sama da (Okay)_. He can stay. _"_

" _Manana,"_ chirped Balach happily, turning a full-toothed smile Dublin's way.

" _Se schai,_ (You're welcome,) _"_ he said to the boy with another pat on the head. As he turned and left, he added, "You and your magical way with kids, boss."

Ashton laughed and called over his shoulder, "As if you don't have it yourself."

Grinning, Dublin said to Sather, "Okay, Dev, we'll split it. I'll pull security while you get three. Then we'll switch. We should hurry. The sun will be coming up in about half an hour."

xxxxxxxxxx

30 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

Zarang and Ariana Mirza sat inside their hut, having just awoken from sleep. They listened to the sounds of shooting for a moment. They were definitely much closer than they had been the night before. Zarang thought, if he listened closely, he could almost hear the shouts of the men as they fought each other. Images of his own war with the Russians came flooding back to him and his closed his eyes to shut them off. Such memories were too horrific.

"How is your pain?" aske Ariana. "Are you fit to pray?"

"Yes, I am fine now," he replied. "We should get ready."

They stepped outside barefoot, a small rag in each of their hands. Zarang sat on a stool at the side of his hut. He set his socks and shoes next to him. Arianna continued to the rear of the hut since women could not do this preparation with men. The preparation, a ritual cleansing called _wudu_ , involved washing various parts of the body several times with clean water. Normally the village as a whole went to the nearby tributary to perform this ritual. Due to the ongoing battle, the village women and younger men - those who were not fighting - brought water from the river up to the village to use this morning.

Even though they were close enough to do so, Zarang and Ariana did not talk to each other. Worldly conversation was forbidden during _wudu._ Zarang bent down and uncovered the bucket next to his stool. He could not see within it since the sun had not yet risen but he trusted the villagers to have brought him clean water. Still, just to be safe, he picked up the bucket and sniffed it. There was no odor. Zarang placed the rag in his lap and got to work.

He began by scrubbing his face with the water from his hairline to where his beard began and from ear to ear three times. The act also helped to invigorate him, as it always did, knocking away the last vestiges of sleep. He then washed his right arm up to the elbow, including between his fingers, three times. Next came the left arm. An act called _masah_ came next. This involved passing wet hands all over the head; then the first finger of the right and left hand in the right and left ears respectively and the thumbs passed around the ears. The backs of the hands then passed over the hind part of the neck only. Finally, he washed his right foot from the sole up to the ankle once. Using the rag in his lap, he dried his foot, put a sock on it, and placed it in a shoe. He'd tie it later. He then repeated this with the other foot. Only now did he tie his shoes.

Zarang stood, ready for dawn prayer. Looking at the horizon, he saw the faintest glimmer along it. Any moment now they would hear the call to prayer. Arianna joined him. They stood apart lest contact with each other invalidate their _wudu_. Zarang reached inside the threshold of their hut and grasped their prayer rugs. He handed one to Ariana. They waited.

xxxxxxxxxx

30 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"TOC, attention," called Alan Weatheral. Colonel Niles Harrington had just entered. All the NextGen employees sprang to their feet.

"Carry on," said Harrington. "Sergeant Major, for the sake of convenience, for this point anyway, let's consider this a tactical situation and dispense with that formality until the Afghanistan situation is resolved."

"Very well, sir," said Weatheral. "Log that, York."

"Roger, Sergeant Major.

Harrington grinned. "I have an update and thought you chaps would like to hear it."

"Already?" asked Johnny.

"Yes, Johnny, I know the wheels of bureaucracy turn slowly but, as you know, your uncle's name moves mountains sometimes. It especially does so when I bring the Defense Minister and the Home Office into a conversation, insinuate Brigadier Ashton's current hazardous situation, and then mention his desire to evacuate an abused orphan when his team leaves the country. I made that part up but figured it was likely true.

"Now, it's not resolved completely but tonight saw a good start. All of the necessary players will be meeting later this morning. "No" is not an option they will consider; neither is "later." They will only agree to "yes" and "now" as responses. Since we don't know when our expeditionary unit will be returning, the constant push will be for three days from now. We can always wait a day, if we must.

"The Home Office, MOD, and Foreign Minister are all behind this. If we have to, we can patch Brigadier Ashton into the PM and get him to push it, too. They don't foresee much resistance from their counterparts in Afghanistan. We just need to get the documentation in order."

"That's incredible," said Boatwright.

"It pays to have friends in high places," added Woodham with a grin.

"Indeed, it does sometimes," agreed Harrington. "By the way, Sergeant Major, would you happen to have the boy's full name?

"Ah, yes. Sorry, sir. I got distracted by all the excitement."

"Quite understandable, Sergeant Major."

Weatheral handed the colonel a slip of note paper. "Here you go, sir. The brigadier called it in a while ago."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major." Harrington studied it for a long moment. "Balach Ghulam Bache-Gharsanay Safayi. My God, he has as many names as Prince William."

"Not really, sir. The brigadier switched frequencies so as not to bog down the team freq and gave us a nice lesson on Afghan names."

Harrington laughed. So did many of the visitors and staff. They knew Ashton well. "Of course, he did," said Harrington. "So what is this. Enlighten me, please."

Weatheral took back the note and used a pen tip to point out different parts of the name. "These first two, Balach Ghulam, are both his first name. In fact, they are his full name. Most Afghan males have two-part names with a dominant and subordinate part. They are both part of his name but, in casual conversation, the subordinate name is often dropped."

"And what about the rest of this?" asked Harrington, pointing to the two-part hyphenated name and the last name.

"Father's name and tribal name, sir. Balach is the _bache_ \- son of - Gharsanay. He is a member of Safay tribe. The I at the end is added when the tribal name is used as part of a person's name."

Harrington nodded. "Thank you for making it simple, Sergeant Major, and I'm not saying that sarcastically." He pointed at the next line on the note. "Now, what about this? Date of birth: 2 Safar 1415. And then under that you wrote 11 July 1994. Which date should I believe? Is he nine years old or nearly six hundred? And, by the way, present Immortal company excluded, I am saying that sarcastically." Harrington grinned.

"Sir," said Weatheral, "if I had not detected sarcasm in that question, I would have signalled one of the TOC personnel to summon the men in white coats." Behind Harrington, in the front row of seats, Johnny began to hum the first few bars to _They're Coming to Take Me Away._ Both Weatheral and Harrington grinned but did nothing to stop him.

"The first date is the date Balach gave as his birthday, obviously based on the Islamic _Hijri_ calendar," said Weatheral.

"And how did you convert it? How do you know this date is accurate?" asked Harrington.

"Brigadier Ashton converted it, sir," was all Weatheral said.

"In his head? Over the radio? Hyped on adrenaline after a firefight? And he still has the presence of mind - or the ability at all - to convert the Hijri calendar to Gregorian?"

Colonel Harrington stopped his questioning and faced the others in the TOC. He grinned and chuckled to himself. "Of course, he does. I forgot who I was talking about for a moment. I keep forgetting I'm in front of class one personnel and don't have to keep up the pretense of not fully knowing his capabilities. Forgive me."

The room laughed again. Harrington tucked the paper in his pocket and walked over to the coffee maker.

"Who made this pot?" he asked.

"I did, sir," replied Sergeant Cramer.

"Good, that means I'll actually enjoy drinking it."

"So, what's the problem with the sergeant major's coffee," inquired Woodham as Harrington pressed the dispensing lever.

"Contrary to what you'd think, Mr. Woodham, it's too weak. Like I said earlier, watered down dog shit. Sergeant Cramer, though, has figured out the perfect combination of punch. And I mean punch. This stuff is stronger than what most people call espresso but somehow it's still smooth and pleasant. Well, I did see young Tristan there putting a great deal of sugar and cream in a cup of it when he tried it."

Tristan grimaced. "I guess I should start with his, then," he said, pointing at Weatheral. He changed his expression to a grin to show the humor he meant by the gesture.

The banter in the room was interrupted by the crackling of the radio speaker. A Scottish-accented voice came over the frequency. Weatheral checked the clock on the wall. It was 04:37, two minutes after sunrise.

"Nightmare Six, this is Alpha Three Seven, over."

"This is Nightmare Six, over."

"We're approaching from an azimuth of three hundred ten degrees from your position, break. We are in the treeline and have Nightmare Seven in sight, pulling security next to the boy, over."

On the monitor through Dublin's helmet cam, the TOC personnel could see glimpses of Balach on his prayer rug as Dublin's head swiveled from side to side. They noticed Dublin was the only one of the NextGen men who could be seen. Everyone else was well concealed.

"Roger, Alpha Three Seven, Six Alpha and I are in the huts and the trees opposite you. Come on in. Over."

"Who's Six Alpha," asked Tristan.

"Nightmare Six Alpha would be Devon Sather," said Weatheral.

"Since he went as David's assistant, read flunky," added Vivia.

"Come on, Viv, don't tell us you're still bitter about Dev going over there, said Johnny.

"Alright, I won't tell you."

Johnny smiled and put his arm back around her anyway. She did not shrug him off.

"Roger, Six," said the Scottish voice. "Coming in, over."

Dublin saw the four men as they broke cover. He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. Experience kept him from it. A linkup with another unit was always exceedingly risky exactly because of the tendency to let one's guard down as it happened. That was why Ashton and Sather had concealed themselves. Dublin, who by now had also built a decent rapport with Balach, was responsible for getting him to safety if something went down while he prayed.

Balach was kneeling, whispering the _Tashahhud_ , the testimony of faith. He had performed the _wudu_ purification earlier, wore clean clothing, and also had a white _kufi_ skull cap on his head. His eyes were closed as he completed the recitation. He turned his head to the right and said in Arabic, _"As-salāmu ʿalaykum wa raḥmatu 'llāh."_ (Peace and Allah's mercy be upon you.) Rotating his head to the left, he repeated the greeting of _taslim_ again. Facing forward, Balach opened his eyes, smiled, and stood, his prayers complete.

Balach wanted to talk to his new friend, Dahreen. He knew from the man's face that he was not pronouncing his name properly. It was a strange name. He would get better, he promised. Dahreen was standing behind him, he knew, but his attention was fixed on the four men walking toward him from the treeline. Two of them were white like Dahreen; the other men were Afghan.

As they came closer, the leader, the one with the craggy face, signaled for the two men in the rear to peel off and go in other directions. The man behind the leader went to the center of the cluster of huts and stood there. The craggy man approached Dahreen directly. Keeping his eye on the new man, Balach knelt down to roll his prayer rug.

"Sandy Traynor," said Dublin. "We asked them to send someone to help, not a crotchety old bastard."

"You're one to talk, aren't you, Sergeant Major?" replied the Scot, grasping Dublin's proffered hand. He glanced down at Balach. "So, this is the job for the next few hours? Guard this little guy?"

"That's it," said Dublin.

Traynor gave Balach a small grin and wink. When that didn't garner any reaction from the boy, he tried a silly face. Balach giggled and smiled at him.

"Maybe you two will even get along," Dublin added.

"With Sandy? That's saying something." Ashton come up to join them. He shook Traynor's hand.

"Bringing home strays again, sir?" asked Traynor.

"Trying anyway. Besides, the old couple we're trying to take out of here might like a pet. Think you can keep him safe until we're done here?"

"Yes, sir. And Barton here can even talk to the kid."

"Barton?"

"Yes, sir. New member on team three. Came to us a few weeks ago. He speaks that snot-gobbling language really well."

Ashton couldn't resist a chuckle. "I remember now. Gary Barton. He was originally an engineer before he volunteered for the SAS. Then some crazy Scot told him he should try out for NextGen."

Traynor smiled. "Guilty," he said."

"Okay," said Ashton. "We need to get ready to go. Now, Balach here might have developed a fondness for western sweets thanks to our overindulgence of him. If either of you care to continue spoiling him, feel free. I'm sure he won't mind. Darren, would you relieve Barton for a moment, please?"

"On it."

Barton came trotting up. "Yes, sir?"

"It's time you met your mission of the morning, Sergeant Barton." Ashton turned to Balach and spoke in Pashtun. "Balach, Darren, Devon and I need to go now, but we're going to leave these four men here to protect you until we get back."

"No, stay with me, please," begged the boy, clutching Asthon's gear again. Putting his hand on Balach's head, he looked into his eyes. "You want me to stay and protect you from those men, right?"

Balach nodded. Ashton pointed at Traynor and Barton. "These men are my soldiers, just like Darren and Devon. This is Sandy and this is Gary." He enunciated each name carefully so Balach could hear every syllable properly.

"They are going to protect you while I go find the man that started that fight up there. When I come back, I am also taking you out of here. How would you like to leave this place?"

Balach's face lit up again. "Oh, yes, please."

"Okay. Just be brave until we get back, alright?" Balach nodded energetically. Ashton squatted next to him and, in a stage whisper, said, "And I think one of them," he pointed very obviously at Traynor while making a goofy face, "has candy in his pocket."

xxxxxxxxxx

30 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

"Can you believe this?" whispered Sergeant Richard Vey - known on the radio as Alpha Sierra Three. "Our guys on closing in on the village and Farid is playing around on a laptop."

"Can you see what he's doing?" asked Corporal Cory Barrie, his spotter.

"No, the zoom on this scope is good, but not that good. The angle is wrong, too. He must be sitting outside hoping for a better signal on an air modem, though. I wonder who he's contacting."

"Should we take it out? Or him?"

"No. Nightmare Six wants him alive. That laptop could be good intel to have. We shouldn't destroy it. Would be nice if we could get him to abandon it somehow."

"He must be connected to something now. He's typing away petty fast."

"Yeah," said Vey. "Almost like his life depended on it."

Two minutes passed as they watched Farid type on the laptop. He sat with his legs extended, his back against the wall of one of the village's huts. He paused, his eyes scanning the screen. A finger then moved across the touchpad and tapped it. Farid leaned back against the wall and smiled.

"I guess he's finished," said Vey. "He looks rather smug about it, whatever he's done."

xxxxxxxxxx

Farid's cell phone signal was too weak at the moment to send a text message to Steyn. His only option had been to power up his laptop and give the air modem a try. Strangely, since it also used cell signals, it had connected. Not one to question Allah's will, Farid had typed out his missive as quickly as possible. Now it was sent. He leaned against the wall now and contemplated his next move, fight the oncoming enemy or escape and fight them later.

Farid let his head rest against the wall, his eyes closed as he thought, a pleasant smile on his face. While many feared the noise of combat, he had always found himself more focused by them. The distractions of the secular world fell away and only the importance of the fight remained. Sometimes, the fighter even received the greatest revelations in the midst of combat. It was a glorious thing.

His head slipping to one side, Farid's eyes slowly opened. He thought they were wandering aimlessly but, no, they were trained on one thing in particular. They flittered back and forth, comparing one thing to another. But why was this such an odd thing to him? Should it be? Setting the laptop aside, he stood and walked over to the object of his confusion.

It was a cart, simple enough in its construction. There were two tires in the back and two poles extending out of the front of the platform. At the end of the poles, another pole and a series of ropes connected them to allow a man to pull the cart. At the back of the platform, another smaller one-wheeled cart - some called it a wheelbarrow - was tied in place. A box was built onto the front of the platform as a repository for tools. A few of the longer tools, such as shovels and rakes, were tied against the floor of the cart.

Farid knelt by the cart, his right hand resting atop the platform. He examined the tire and wheel in front of him. Standing, he went to the other side and took a close look at the other wheel and tire. Yes, one was definitely newer than the other. He stood there for a moment, silently considering this fact.

 _Why does this matter? Farmers, even poor ones, replace parts of their equipment all the time. He could have bartered with another villager or a man in town for this work._

Farid stepped up to the front of the cart, leaning over the pole to look into the toolbox. He lifted a few of them to look underneath. A few of them, not many, were obviously newer than the others. He straightened, shaking his head as the same thought went through his mind again. Looking across the village, he saw Dhanial and Shinwari. He motioned for them to come to him, but quietly.

xxxxxxxxxx

Zarang had decided the time was right to tell Ariana. From the sounds of the shooting, he knew the chaos would be at their doorstep soon. He wanted her to know before she saw foreign soldiers and feared the worst.

He took her hands in hers, kneeling with her in the center of their hut. The eyes of his wife of almost forty years looked at him questioningly. He smiled at her, squeezing her hands.

"Arianna, my wife," he whispered just loud enough to be heard. "This is a great day for us." Her questioning look grew. "Today, we will be leaving this place and going someplace better."

"What do you mean, Zarang? I don't understand."

Zarang motioned toward the road with his head. "Those men approaching the village, the ones fighting Asfand's men, they're coming for us." Ariana began to draw back in fear. Zarang held her in place by her hands.

"No, no, no," he soothed. "They're coming because I called them. I told them there were evil men in the village and said they had to take us somewhere safe. That is why they are still coming down that hazardous road instead of turning back or just dropping bombs on the village. They're coming to save us."

Arianna relaxed somewhat. She looked into his eyes again. "Who did you tell? Someone in town?"

"No, I have a radio. I called an Englishman. He and his soldiers, not Americans, are the ones on that road. I saw one of them yesterday. That is why I came back early, not a headache. He said they were coming and to be ready."

Arianna's smiled. Zarang rejoiced in his heart. It had been ages since he had seen a true smile on his wife's face.

"Where will they take us? Jalalabad? Kabul?"

"If we want," he answered. "Or out of the country. I have money and passports for us both."

She was confused again. "How? How did you get the money?"

"Do you remember when those two strange men arrived a few weeks ago?

She nodded.

"Two years ago, an Englishman asked me to memorize twelve faces and to call him on the radio he gave me if I saw one of them. For that, he has paid me one hundred American dollars per month just to watch for him. I have most of that money. Some of it I used to repair the cart, get a few tools, and get the passports, but I have the rest in my satchel under my pillow. When the English get here, we will take the satchel and leave. We can leave everything else. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said, smiling again. "I have so many questions, though."

"There will be time for that later, my wife. For now, we must be ready. And we must be cautious."

There was a knock at the wooden panel door of their hut. Three light taps. Zarang turned his head to face the door. It was open to allow in the extra light. Standing outside the threshold, a polite smile on his face, was Aadam Farid. Zarang stood to greet his visitor.

" _As-salamu alaykum,"_ (Peace be unto you,) he said, placing his hands together and smiling.

" _Wa ʿalaykumu s-salām,"_ (And peace be upon you,) replied Farid, with the same gesture. "May I come in?" he asked.

"Please," said Zarang with a wave.

Farid exchanged the same greeting with Arianna after he crossed the threshold. He then shook hands with Zarang.

"I heard from Asfand earlier that you took ill yesterday and had to come home early. I pray Allah has willed it that you would recover quickly."

Zarang motioned for Farid to sit along the wall on the cushions. Farid thanked him and sat. Zarad sat, as well, a cushion away, and answered him.

"Yes, sir, I had a headache so severe I could barely see by the time I got my cart back home. I came inside and put a cloth over my eyes and slept until just before the dawn prayer. When my eyes were opened, Allah had seen fit to bless me with bliss and no pain."

"Ah, praise Allah," said Farid, smiling. "I am glad to hear it. Such a pity that you cannot work today what with this nastiness outside. That fine cart of yours is going to waste.

"I was looking at it before I came inside and saw you recently had a wheel repaired. My brother the next town over needs his cart repaired but cannot afford it. I was thinking of giving him the money. Can you recommend someone to do the work?"

"Yes, sir. Nabi next to Mahmud the cobbler. He is near the American base. He is the one who repaired my cart."

"Excellent," said Farid. Putting a finger to his temple, he looked at Zarang. "Nabi? You mean the short man with the cleft lip?"

Zarang laughed. "Yes, that is him. He also assists Mahmud when cart work is slow."

"Yes, yes," said Farid. "That's all I thought he did, just a cobbler's assistant. I'm surprised he can do such heavy work being he's such a short man."

"Allah has given him the gift of greater strength than he appears to have."

"Has He? Now I really must see Nabi at work. I'm intrigued." Farid leaned against the wall, his hands resting on his upright knees. He swept the room with his eyes before looking at Zarang again.

"How much do you think he would wish to charge for this work? Or would he be willing to barter?," he asked, turning his head forward and resting it languidly on the wall again.

"I have not known him to barter often," said Zarang. "Sometimes, but not usually. Since he is so close to the base, he prefers dollars so I had to find a way to get those. I paid forty dollars for my wheel and tire."

Farid winced. "That is a lot of money around here."

"Yes, it is," agreed Zarang, "but I needed the wheel or I could not bring in the harvest last year."

"One does what one must," shrugged Farid. "Is there a problem with your wife, by the way?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ever since I mentioned money, her eyes have not stopped going to that spot over there." Farid pointed to the corner on Zarang's other side before turning his eyes to Arianna. "My dear old woman, is Allah causing an emotion to grow within you which forces you to look in that direction? Guilt, perhaps?"

Farid stood up. Zarand looked up at him with apparent incomprehension.

"Sir, there is no reason for her to be looking over there."

"Is that so," questioned Farid. "Asfand, Rafi, come in, please." The two men entered. "If that is so then, in front of these witnesses, you should have no qualms about exposing whatever may - or may not - be there. If there is nothing, then you will receive my humblest apologies for inconveniencing you."

Zarang did not move. He only looked into Farid's eyes.

"Am I to take your lack of movement as incomprehension or refusal, Zarang?"

Zarang said nothing.

"Very well," said Farid. "I shall do it. Rafi, please stand near him just in case he tries anything."

Shinwari took the three steps to close the distance to Zarang. Similarly, Dhanial stood next to Arianna. Farid stepped to Zarang's other side and knelt next to the covered pillow. Looking into Zarang's eyes, he slowly lifted the blanket and reached underneath. He pulled the pillow out and folded back the blanket.

"So, Zarang, what's to be ashamed about an ID card, a few Afghani currency notes, a pocket knife, and a satchel? Or is it the contents of the satchel that is the source of your apprehension? What? Still no response? Well, let's just see for ourselves.

"Oh, and what's this under it? A radio set? My, my, Zarang, you are full of surprises today, aren't you? Well, let's not worry about that right now. I really want to know what we have in here."

Farid picked up the satchel. He hefted it in both hands and grinned.

"It's a bit heavy, isn't it, Zarang? And lumpy? I wonder what's inside."

With that, Farid turned the satchel upside down and unceremoniously dumped its contents onto the blanketed floor. No words were spoken for several seconds. Everyone simply looked at the ruffled stacks of American, British, and Afghan currency lying jumbled with two brand new passports. Finally, Farid looked up at Zarang, a broad smile on his lips.

"You see, Zarang, was that really so bad, after all?"

xxxxxxxxxx

"I don't like this," muttered Meeker. "Farid hasn't shown the least bit of interest in the Mirzas the whole time we've been here and now he's pawing at their cart and going for a visit."

"Yeah, and he brings his goons along with him," added O'Rourke. "This can't be good."

"How long's he been in there?"

"Twelve minutes," said O'Rourke. "Wait, I see movement in there."

"Got it," confirmed Meeker, peering through his scope. "Okay, there's Farid. And Shinwari. He's got Mirza. And Dhanial has the wife."

"Farid is carrying money and passports," said O'Rourke.

"Shit, they've been made. My bet is he's going to execute them."

"What are you going to do?

"The only thing I can do."

Meeker fired.

xxxxxxxxxx

Farid recognized the buzz of the round passing by his ear immediately. _Allah's will,_ he thought as another potentially fatal wound missed him. In the modern day, bullets could take a head just as easily as a blade. The sound behind him, however, was not as comforting. It was the nauseating slap of a bullet striking flesh.

Farid turned. Rafi Shinwari lay dead, his body strewn across the floor of Zarang Mirza's hut. Most of his face was missing. Tall even for a Pashtun at one hundred ninety-one centimeters, the bullet that had passed over Farid's shoulder had struck Shinwari between the nose and upper lip. At that moment, Farid heard the report of the round that killed Shinwari.

Farid turned away from the body of his friend, his understanding clear. The bullet had not missed him. Shinwari had been the intended target all along.

"Get back insi…" he began to shout to Dhanial. A second slap beat him to it. Dahnial gasped as red eye appeared on his chest. Shock set in immediately and the elder's legs buckled, his grip on Arianna loosening.

Farid lept at Arianna, seizing her by one arm and spinning back to face the hut. Zarang had just taken a step away from the body of Shinwari in an attempt to escape. Farid heard the second report from the rifle. He slammed the palm of his fist into the old man's chest, knocking him back into the hut, and followed him, dragging Arianna behind him.

"Ghilji," bellowed Farid as loud as he was able, calling out the name of his radioman. "Come to the Mirza hut now."

"Coming, sir," affirmed the radio operator.

Farid threw Arianna to the floor, ignoring her screams. He leaned against the wall by the doorway and slowly slid to the floor. Farid smiled at the Mirzas despite their obvious fear. "Like I said, Zarang, you are full of surprises today. You have your own snipers in the mountains to protect you, as well, eh?" He pointed at the radio still laying in the corner of the hut. "I suppose Ashton gave you that?"

"Ashton?" said Zarang, confusion on his face.

Farid waved the question away. "No matter. The man goes by many names, as we all do. He probably did give it to you." Farid's eyes moved grudgingly to Shinwari's body. "And, as a result, Rafi and Asfand are dead." His eyes hardened. "Because of you, Zarang, and you, Arianna. Because of you, my men and my friends are dying today."

Zarang sat up and faced Farid, his expression stern. "Arianna had nothing to do with any of this. I made the call to the Englishmen. She knew nothing of the radio or the money until minutes before you came here this morning."

"Truly?" asked Farid, his expression softening slightly. "Does he speak the truth, Arianna?"

Tentatively, Arianna nodded. Farid grinned at Zarang again. "Do you see how easy the truth is, Zarang? Now Arianna need not fear the pain of my sword today. You, on the other hand…"

"I have made my peace with Allah," said Zarang.

"Ah," said Farid, "but have you made your peace with the fire? For surely, as a traitor, that is the fate that awaits one who betrays Allah's will."

"The only one who has betrayed Allah's will here is you," retorted Zarang.

"I grow weary of this talk, Zarang. I will make a deal with you. The two of you remain silent for the next five minutes and in return I will not slit your throats where you sit. Agreed?"

The Mirzas did not answer. Farid smiled once more. He stood, pacing the length of the tiny hut. It was all the smaller with Shinwari's body sprawled across the floor. "Good," said Farid. "I see we have an understanding. While you're not talking, pull my friend's body out of the doorway and roll him against the wall. Don't worry. The sniper won't shoot you. He's protecting you. Remember?"

Farid leaned against the doorway wall again, waiting for the Mirzas to complete their task. Arianna gasped upon seeing the horrendous exit wound at the back of Shinwari's head. True to Farid's word, though, not a shot was fired. And what he hoped to find was uncovered when Shinwari's body was moved. There in the blue blankets, made more apparent by splotches of red, was a ragged hole.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Who's this prick?" asked O'Rourke, tracking him through his spotting scope.

Meeker found him and followed the man as he dashed behind one hut then another, minimizing his exposure to fire. "Smart, whoever he is," said Meeker. On the man's next dash, Meeker saw the man's backpack and the folded antenna sticking out from it.

"Shit," he spat. "Radioman."

"It's alright," said O'Rourke. "There's only one way into Mirza's hut and there's fifteen meters of open ground he's got to cover to get there. You've got this. Just dial it in. Get him before he makes the door and we're golden."

The snipers waited. So, too, did the radioman. "Patient fucker," said O'Rourke. Meeker didn't respond. He lay in place and waited.

"He's moving," announced O'Rourke.

Meeker tracked the radioman. It was a simple shot. He led the target, compensating for the man's forward movement, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked against his shoulder. Meeker held it in place, maintaining his aim on the target. The man slipped and fell to one knee. Meeker saw the round immpact the wall of the mud hut above his head.

"Miss," said O'Rourke. "Reacquire."

"Shit," seethed Meeker as he racked the bolt on his rifle. The man was already staggering to his feet and stumbling into a run again. He would not have heard the report yet. Meeker led him again and squeezed.

The bullet hit the radioman under the left armpit as he ran. It travelled downward and exited underneath the right side of his rib cage, spraying the ground with his blood. The man was dead on his feet. His forward momentum continued to carry him another two meters before he crashed facedown in front of the doorway of the Mirza's hut.

"Goddammit," steamed Meeker, working the bolt again. Looking through the scope once more, he saw Farid leaning through the threshold and gripping the dead man's rucksack. Meeker fired again. The round struck Farid in the left shoulder, shattering his shoulder blade and slamming him on top of the body of his radioman. Meeker slid another round into the chamber and re-aimed. Farid was leading back into the hut, dragging the radioman with him using one hand and his body weight. Meeker aimed at Farid's chest then, reconsidering, adjusted his aim to the rucksack. With a final jerk, Farid yanked the body inside. All Meeker could still see was a momentary glimpse of the corpse's legs before they, too, disappeared.

"Fuck!" Meeker shouted.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Shut the door," ordered Farid.

Zarang moved to comply. Farid dragged the body of the radioman to the side of the hut and stopped to rest, his breathing ragged. His shoulder was on fire. He patted his right pocket. Good, what he wanted was there. He withdrew a pen from it. He tossed it to Zarang.

"Put that in the hole there," he pointed at it, "until it stands on its own accord. Hurry. We're running out of time."

Zarang did as he was told. After a moment of maneuvering the pen around in the hole of the blanket, he found the hold in the hard-packed dirt underneath. The pen stood up pointed in a diagonal angle toward the door.

"Good," panted Farid, the intensity of his pain obvious. "Now open the door and stand back."

Comprehension dawned on Zarang's face as he moved to the door. He had seen this before. Twenty years of time had simply faded his memory. He opened the door and stepped away. He sat by Arianna and watched Farid. Surely, with such a wound, he would either die or pass out soon. Then they could escape. Until then, trying to overpower him was out of the question. The pistol on his right hip was too accessible to him. No, they must wait until he lost consciousness or bled out.

But he did neither. They watched him for five full minutes as the impossible happened. With each passing minute, his labored breathing became easier. The pain in his eyes decreased. After three minutes, he moved his arm experimentally, winced, and leaned against the wall for a moment longer, a sublime grin on his face. Finally, he sat up and stretched both of his arms, his spine cracking, and he sighed with relief.

"I have just seen the _djinn_ (demons) at work," said Zarang.

"Not the _djinn_ , Zarang. Allah does what Allah wills. Some, like your friend, Nabi, he grants strength incomparable with their stature. Others, like myself and your benefactor, Ashton, he grants immortality. Grievous wounds such as the one I just received, _insha'Allah_ (if Allah wills it), are but temporary inconveniences to us. Now, to more important work than your questions."

Farid went to his belly, crawling cautiously toward the doorway and the pen. He moved with glacial patience. He paused at the edge of the line of shadow caused by the sunlight entering the door. With a deep breath, he rolled into the light, his eyes in line with the pen. He stayed there for one full second and rolled back into the shadow. A thudding sound announced a second hole in the carpet.

"You are mine now," whispered Farid. He grinned to himself as he dug the handmic out of the radioman's rucksack.

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton, Dublin, and Sather were twelve hundred meters from the village. They also had a massive tributary to cross, a lot of difficult terrain, and, from where they lay, a hell of a lot of fighters in their way.

"How many do you think?" asked Sather.

"I counted about seventy between us and the river when I looked at it," said Ashton. "It looks like they've built a small bridge there, too."

"Using that would be a lot better than trying to ford that beast somewhere else," commented Dublin.

"Assuming they don't blow it when we hit them," added Sather.

"The good - or bad - news is they're holed up in an abandoned village. It's a pretty decent size. They're all divided up in several of the buildings."

"Well," said Dublin, "that's good for us while clearing one building, but awful once we start to exit it."

"Right," said Ashton.

"Bypass?" asked Sather.

"Then they shoot us up while we're crossing the bridge or come up behind us while we're in the main village."

"Are there any civilians in there?" queried Dublin.

"I didn't see any," replied Ashton. "I checked almost every building."

"Hmm," muttered Sather. "That's a tough nut."

"How many claymores do you have, Darren?" asked Ashton.

"Four."

"How long would you need to set them up?"

"About thirty seconds each, I'd say."

"Radio or wire det?"

"Radio."

"Okay."

"What are you thinking?" asked Sather.

"Channeling," Ashton replied. "Get them bunched up and then blow the claymores to reduce their numbers. Then we have a better chance with what's left."

"Clear every building in the village after we blow them?" asked Dublin.

"Not exactly." Ashton pointed. "We fight them over there. I checked those seven huts over there before I came back. We make them come to us and fight them there."

"How do we know all of them will come to us?" inquired Sather.

"We don't. It's a risk. I'm betting on their machismo to bring them all to us."

"Machismo?" repeated Dublin.

Ashton grinned. "Arab machismo, the desire to fight the infidel, can be a useful tool sometimes."

"Let's just hope we're not the tools and digging our own graves," said Sather.

xxxxxxxxxx

30 June 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"Machismo?" questioned Alyssa. "Could that really work?"

"Perhaps," answered Weatheral. "I've read reports of American units in Iraq doing something to play on that in some of their missions. They attached loudspeakers to their vehicles and broadcast heckling comments in Arabic as they drove. They say things such as the insurgents are cowards who let their women do their fighting or the Americans may as well fight children for all the trouble the insurgents give them. According to the reports, fighters come out in droves screeching in anger - and, may I say, die in heaps - as a result. I think he's planning something similar."

Vivia laughed. "I can verify that. Arab men are worse than Hispanic men when it comes to machismo, especially if you call them women."

"Yeah," said Tristan, "but they don't have loudspeakers. How are they going to do it?"

"We'll have to wait and see," replied Woodham.

xxxxxxxxxx

30 June 2004

Near Asadabad, Afghanistan

They were ready thirty minutes later. Everyone was in place. Dublin crouched at the periphery of the fighters' village and waved back at the others. He was ready.

"Let's just hope you can make that three hundred meter run in time, you crazy Irishman," whispered Sather from his perch on a rooftop. Hearing him on the radio, Dublin flipped him the V. Sather grinned.

"Okay, Darren, do it," said Ashton.

Nodding, Dublin leaned around the corner, aiming through the sights of his grenade launcher, and sent a round through the window of one of the huts. He was rewarded by a series of screams from within as the round thrumphed inside.

Standing to his feet, Dublin cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted in Pashtun. "Hey, you goat fuckers, are you going to fight us or send your ass-fucked mothers out to do it for you?" He then repeated the taunt in Dari.

As soon as he finished the second invective, Dublin turned and ran. He slung his rifle across his shoulders and pulled a detonator from his webgear. Not looking back, he kept running.

He heard Ashton's voice over his radio. "It's working, Darren. They're gathering in the thoroughfare. They've spotted you. Okay, they're coming now. Oh, they're in quite a frenzy. They're not even raising their weapons. They're just chasing you. Good. Wait. Wait. Okay. Blow the first one."

Dublin squeezed the detonator. Behind him, he heard the blast of the first claymore. The mine contained a layer of C-4 explosive behind a matrix of about seven hundred 3.2mm diameter (1⁄8 inch) steel balls set into an epoxy resin. When the mine was detonated, the explosion drove the matrix forward out of the mine at a velocity of twelve hundred meters per second at the same time breaking it into individual fragments. The steel balls were projected in a sixty degree fan-shaped pattern that was two meters high and fifty meters wide at a range of fifty meters. The force of the explosion deformed the relatively soft steel balls into a shape similar to a .22 caliber rimfire projectile.

The effect on the crowd of men rabidly pursuing Dublin was devastating. Nine of them fell to the ground with either mortal or crippling wounds. Several others stumbled as they ran, their anger driving them onward despite their injuries. The rest of the group slowed, waiting for another explosion. When it didn't come, the charged again, shrieking their hateful curses at the fleeing Irishman as they pursued.

Dublin was halfway to the tiny cluster of abandoned huts. His legs pounded the uneven, rocky ground as he ran, his lungs burning. He slipped the used detonator into a side sack with his empty magazines and pulled two more from other pockets. Above him, Ashton and Sather were now firing at the oncoming men, slowing their progress and distracting them from shooting at him all the more.

There were two pathways of hard-packed dirt slanting upward toward the hut cluster. Dublin took the path to the left, turning on an extra burst of speed. Behind him, he heard shooting. Nothing came near him. It must be directed at the rooftops where Ashton and Sather were. He was halfway up the path when Ashton spoke again. The firing from the rooftops did not abate.

"They're dividing into two groups now. Some of them are going to the other path. They must think your way is mined, too."

Dublin didn't respond. He kept running. He cleared the path. Another fifty meters and he would be inside the first hut. He was seconds away from cover. He dug deeper, trying for more speed. He got the speed he wanted but in another way. Four bullets struck him in the back and punched him through the open doorway. He flew across the threshold and landing facedown on the bare floor inside.

His lungs aflame, Dublin fought to bring himself to his knees. He searched desperately for the detonators. He had lost his grip on them as he came through the doorway. He saw one to his left and dove for it. Rising frantically, he scanned the room for the other one. He didn't see it. He stood, taking a step into the room. His head rotated this way and that. He saw it in the far corner of the room. With a quick step to it, he seized it and glanced at the number he had taped to it earlier. Good. He knew which was which.

"Blow the left side, Darren."

Dublin squeezed the detonator in his left hand. The mine set up to the side of the path so its arc would fan across the entire path exploded. Switching the detonator to his other hand, Dublin tucked it into the magazine bag.

"And the right."

Another squeeze. Dublin put that detonator in his bag, pulled out the last one, and backed out of the room. The last claymore was entirely his call.

The pursuing men had been mellowed considerably by the three mines and the attritive rifle fire. However, they were now committed to the fight. There were still thirty-seven of them and only three of the infidels. Several of them fired full-auto bursts up at the rooftops as the two men above them fired single shots back at them. Down below, six of them rushed headlong into the hut into which their quarry had fled. They found an empty room…except for a small, green plastic case with "FRONT TOWARD ENEMY" written on the front. Whether any of them noticed it before it exploded, none lived to tell.

On the rooftop above Dublin, Sather grasped one of the grenades at his side and pulled the pin. He let the spoon fly off behind him. He counted to three quickly and tossed it over the side. The baseball-sized explosive burst over the heads of the men gathered there. Four huts down where the other pathway ended and where Ashton lay on a similar rooftop, the same thing happened. From both roofs, a second grenade immediately followed the first.

Fleeing the danger from above, the fighters rushed into the huts to their front. They found other hazards there in the form of tripwired grenades. Still, they pressed on. They knew they either had to fight through to the rooftops and kill their enemies or run across three hundred meters of open ground. To do that was certain death.

One fighter tried to throw a grenade onto Ashton's roof. Seeing it, he rolled over to it and swatted it back over the edge. It was a desperate move, he knew, but worth trying. He got it over the edge just in time. Once more, almost half-heartedly, a grenade bounced onto the roof in front of him. He knocked it away quickly.

Backing away from the front of the roof, Ashton turned his attention to the stairs that offered access to the roof. He trained his rifle on the open staircase and waited. Seconds later, a man darted up the stairs. Ashton caught him with a burst of automatic fire and let him fall backward.

Whoever was behind the dead man was a little smarter. A hand came over the edge of the roof and tossed up a grenade. Not trusting his luck a third time, Ashton fired a burst directly down the staircase. He dove down the stairs, bouncing roughly down them headfirst, his rifle in front of him. He saw two bodies on the floor below him. A third man stood at the foot of the staircase, a look of bewilderment on his face.

Ashton's first burst took out the man's knees. Righting himself quickly, Ashton fired another burst into the fighter's chest and backed into a corner to reload.

xxxxxxxxxx

"We need to relocate. We've fired way too many shots from this position," said Meeker.

"I agree. Let's pack up," O'Rourke affirmed, the hairs on his neck rising. "I've got a bad feeling already."

xxxxxxxxxx

Sergeant Vey scanned the village through his scope. He sighed. "Everyone is staying hidden in their huts."

"Can't say I blame them," said Barrie. He canted his spotting scoped to the side, checking the surrounding area. Pausing, he dialed in the focus.

"Oh, shit," he said. "Vey, look at two hundred sixty degrees. Beyond Meeker's position. A thousand meters from here. Some of the fighters over there are coming back. Twenty or so of them. They're right in the middle of fighting the ANA on the mountaintop and they're coming back toward the village."

"Retreating?" asked Vey.

"I don't think so. Too organized. I think they're going back to look for Meeker."

"Damn," said Vey. "Farid must have called them on his radio. I wish I'd had a clear shot at the guy. I'd have taken him out myself." Vey focused his scope in the direction his spotter indicated and spoke again. "Alpha Sierra One, did you copy our chatter? You've got trouble headed your way. Break. Three hundred meters from your position and closing. Over."

"Roger, Sierra Three. Might need some covering fire to get out of this, over."

xxxxxxxxxx

Lieutenant Gahez Baqri had been given one of the NextGen radios before the mission began. He could not understand all of the conversation he overheard. The last several minutes of talking, though he was able to make out. He also knew, or hoped, it was something he could influence. He and his men, what was left of them, were currently engaged with Farid's volunteer fighters at the point where the men in question were withdrawing to search for the British snipers.

When the brigadier had first given him the mission of clearing the mountaintop with only thirty men, Baqri had believed it to be a suicide mission. It might still be. However, he was seeing the superiority of his men's training, in particular the skills they had learned from the British in the last several days, over the combat abilities of the men he faced.

One glaring example was in marksmanship. Farid's fighters tended to stand and fire their rifles from the hip on full automatic. While this put a lot of lead in the air, it was highly inaccurate. Baqri's men, when they fired while standing, used reflexive fire techniques for shorter range targets and went to a kneeling or prone position for longer range targets, using their sights every time and firing single shots. As a result, the mountain was littered with the bodies of scores of Farid's men; thus far, only six of Baqri's men had been killed and eleven wounded. While that was still more than half of the thirty men he had brought with him, it had not damaged their fighting spirit.

Now, Baqri and his men faced double their number, not counting the contingent that had pulled back to pursue the snipers. Still, Baqri was confident they could break the enemy before them and relieve their beleaguered comrades. Given time.

Bullets pounded into the rocks in front of Baqri, sending jagged chips into his cheek and arm. He slid further behind the stones to improve his cover. Above him, one of his sergeants fired two quick shots. He adjusted his aim and fired again.

"You're safe, sir," he called.

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Baqri, raising his head and weapon again. His eyes surveyed the situation quickly. He cursed. They had to get to the snipers. They were running out of time.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Fuck," said Vey. "We've got to stall those guys or Meeker and O'Rourke are dead."

Vey pivoted his aim point from the village to the group of fighters approaching Meeker's position. Making sure his line of fire did not overlap with the ANA soldiers' farthest point of advance, Vey squeezed the trigger.

xxxxxxxxxx

The grin on Farid's lips spread on he listened to the radio reports. His eyes flickered to the Mirzas. They did not like the glint they saw in them. Fifteen minutes after ordering his men to search for the snipers, Farid set the microphone down. He stood, he gaze firmly on the Mirzas now.

"That, I think, is enough of a distraction for us to be able to conduct our business. Let's go outside, shall we?"

He pushed the Mirzas ahead of him through the doorway. Though the sounds of gunfire were intense, no bullets came their way. Farid guided them to the meager village square.

Once more, Farid bellowed at the top of his lungs. "It is safe to come out, at least for the moment. Everyone come out and witness Allah's divine judgement. See those who have brought death to this village."

Farid waited. Some fighters came out at once. Tentatively, the villagers began to peer out of their huts. The sight of fighters encouraged some of them to emerge. Farid repeated his summons. Now some eighty villagers and fifty volunteer fighters stood around him.

Farid slowly turned to face as many of the people in the crowd as he could. He kept a wary eye on the Mirzas, as well. His right hand rested on his pistol grip, just in case.

"Asfand Dhanial and Rafi Shinwari are dead. They were killed minutes ago by _kafir_ snipers. All around us, you hear the sounds of the _kafir_ as they near this village. The people responsible for bringing death to your village today and robbing you of your leaders stand before your now. They are these two: Zarang and Arianna Mirza."

"No," said Zarang. "I said she had nothing to do with it."

"A confession from the lips of the traitor himself."

The villagers began to grumble angrily. The fighters eyed each other.

"Those of you loyal to Asfand and Rafi who still wish to carry on the fight against the _kafir_ , how many of you will swear your allegiance to me now?"

To a man, the fighters raised their weapons in the air and roared.

"Then two of you lay hands on the prisoners now, but do not harm them. Put them on their knees. It is time for a demonstration of Allah's judgement."

Two men rushed to comply, handing their weapons to other men and stepping into the center to grasp the arms of Zarang and Arianna. They then kicked the hollows of their knees, driving them to the ground. With a grin, Farid strolled out of the crowd and approached his hut. He saw his laptop on the ground by the entrance. He picked it up and carried it inside.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sather fired a burst into the chest of a man three meters from him. He stepped aside as the man fell and delivered a buttstroke to the chin of the next man closest to him. He heard the man's neck snap as his head rocked back from the impact.

A third man stepped through the doorway, his weapon at his hip. Sather raised his rifle to his shoulder. The fighter fired first, a long burst that caught the American from him stomach to high in the chest, punching him back against the wall. Breathless, Sather slid to the floor.

The fighter took another step into the hut, a victorious smirk on his face. He brought his weapon up to his shoulder again to fire the coup-de-gras into his enemy's head. Desperately, Sather fired his rifle one handed, hitting the man in the shin. Shrieking in pain, the fighter fell on his face, his weapon discharging as he collapsed. Sather put an aimed burst into the man's skull.

"Shit!" he cursed, gripping his right thigh. A round had creased the top of his leg as the man fell. There was no serious injury. There was just a little blood, but it still hurt like mad. He struggled to his feet and reloaded.

xxxxxxxxxx

Farid exited the hut, an exquisitely curved Avarian saber in his hand. Its sixty-nine centimeter blade flashed in the morning sun as he approached the waiting crowd. The smile on his face was as bright as the flashing blade. Stepping back into the center of the throng, Farid directed his smile at the two kneeling prisoners. Zarang's eyes widened in fear at the sight of the sword.

Pointing at Arianna with the tip of his blade, he spoke to the man restraining her. "Lean her forward."

"No," shouted Zarang. "You said, since she had nothing to do with this, you would let her go."

Farid's laugh drowned out the sound of the gunfire in the mountains above and the valley below. His dark eyes peered down at Zarang with a malevolent glimmer. "My good man, I said no such thing. I said she need not fear the pain of my sword. And I am a man of my word."

Farid stepped back. The man gripping Arianna's arms had taken her wrists and pulled them behind her back. Placing a boot on her spine, he had her prostrated on the ground, her neck exposed. Farid spun the blade in his hand once, his smile still in place and, with one deft, practiced stroke, removed Arianna Mirza's head. The man behind her was forced to release her wrists as her legs shot back involuntarily. He jumped to the rear and her body slumped to the side, the stump of her neck spouting blood. Zarang wailed.

"You see?" said Farid with a bow, his arms outstretched. "She felt no pain at all. You, on the other hand, my dear Zarang," he said, pointed his bloody blade at the old man, "will feel quite a lot of pain before I take your head."

xxxxxxxxxx

Meeker chose his shot carefully so it wouldn't pass through a fighter and hit an ANA soldier. He squeezed the trigger and saw the man topple. A bullet tugged at his sleeve. He ignored it. To his right, O'Rourke took down another fighter.

From another mountainside, Vey and Barrie were providing supporting fire. Fighters Meeker and O'Rourke had not shot were crumpling to the ground seconds before the sounds of the rounds that killed them could be heard.

To the rear of the fighters, Baqri's ANA soldiers were increasing their pressure. A breakthrough was imminent. Meeker could smell it, could taste it. He kept shooting. Just a little longer.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dublin slammed the door behind him as he entered the room. It would be a minor inconvenience to his pursuers but he needed every second he could get. He fed a new magazine into his SA80 and took a breath. He looked around the small room and cursed.

He didn't like how he had ended up. As was the original plan, he had been hut-hopping and leading the fighters into pre-arranged traps to reduce their numbers. Those traps were now expended, as far as he could tell, but there were still the sounds of combat in the huts around him, and five or six fighters were currently tailing him, hot for his blood.

Dublin took a position in the corner to the right of the door. Immediately behind the door was idiotic; so was the corner facing it. The corner diagonal from the door would be the next one seen once the enemy entered the room. This position gave him the longest period of concealment, if one could call it that. Also, if a grenade were thrown into the room, it tended to be thrown straight in. This at least would have him farthest from the blast; not that it would help much - or at all - in this tiny space.

The door crashed open as a man kicked it. To Dublin's surprise, there was no following grenade, only an onrushing man. Dublin's rifle was already at his shoulder. He fired a controlled pair into the man's side, perforating his ribcage. The fighter sank against the door, blocking the path of the follow-on man.

Dublin traversed left and fired another pair into the throat of the stalled fighter. The man's face turned pale with shock as he gagged on his own blood. His spine severed by one of the rounds, he also collapsed. The third man wasn't taking chances with the Irishman. Dublin saw an AK poke around the doorway and being to fire on full automatic. Dublin dropped to the floor and waited until the magazine ran dry.

Dublin patted his equipment belt as the firing continued, searching for a grenade. He was out. He cursed silently. He couldn't fire his rifle-mounted launcher indoors anyway. The round would not detonate at such close range. He had to wait for the men to charge him. Or worse. To throw their own grenades in on him.

An explosion in the narrow hallway rocked the tiny hut. Screams from the fighters reached Dublin's ears. A second later, they were punctuated by a burst of automatic fire. Then there was silence.

"Clear. Coming in." It was Ashton's voice. The Minoan stepped into the doorway. He took one look at Dublin and grinned. "Now who's lying down on the job?" he quipped, turning his eyes and weapon back to the hallway.

"Hey, I had a good handle on things."

"I could see that," commented Ashton, still grinning. "Let's find Sather."

xxxxxxxxxx

Captain Brandon Laramie's HMMWV continued to crawl forward as did several in the beleaguered convoy. Of the original fifteen HMMWVs that had begun the mission, only nine were still rolling. The other six were either crippled or had to be abandoned due to being blocked by the damaged vehicles on the narrow road. Dead and wounded men along with sensitive equipment and weapons were crammed on top of each other in the vehicles.

The pressure from RPG and rifle attacks from above was virtually nonexistent thanks to Lieutenant Baqri's successful flanking maneuver on the mountain. That still left considerable work for the gunners of the lead vehicles in the convoy, though, as they faced persistent resistance from the fighters ahead of them. Still, Captain Laramie was five hundred meters from the bend in the road that would take him into the village proper. He was almost there.

Then, to his amazement, the volunteers in front of him broke and abandoned their positions. They were running into the village. His gunners did not let up their fire. They cut down several men as they ran. Laramie got on the radio to report his progress.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Nightmare Six, this is Alpha Three Six. Resistance has broken, break. We will be at Checkpoint Hotel in two mikes (minutes), over."

"Roger, "Alpha Three Six. We are at the village at the following grid." Ashton read the coordinates to him. "We will be crossing the tributary on a small bridge to your south. Do not engage. Break. We will link up with you at the bend. Over."

"Roger, Nightmare Six, Over."

xxxxxxxxxx

Lieutenant Baqri smiled. The last of the thirty fighters blocking him from reaching the snipers' positions were down. Now he had only to deal with the contingent actively searching for the Englishmen. He stood from cover and ordered his men to advance. He ran ahead of his men, pausing only to put a pair of rounds into the back of one of the men threatening the snipers.

The fight was not done yet. A dozen volunteers remained. Meeker and O'Rourke were battling tenaciously. The snipers from the adjacent mountain were contributing their fire. Now, Baqri could finally assist, as well.

With fire coming from three sides, albeit it carefully so as not to hit friendly soldiers, the enemy fighters were falling quickly. Baqri's heart lifted. They were nearly there.

Then it happened. One of the snipers had to reload his rifle. An enemy fighter was too close, his rifle already rising to fire. The sniper dropped his rifle and drew a pistol from a hip holster, firing three rounds into the fighter. The sniper pivoted to engage a second threat. His body jerked. Baqri saw his hands go to his chest. He knew the man's body armor had protected him from a mortal injury, but he was still battered from the impact. The sniper rose and jerked again. Baqri saw blood flow down the man's chest. He had been hit in the throat. Clutching his neck, the sniper fell to the ground and moved no more.

xxxxxxxxxx

Vey saw Meeker fall and cursed. His next round took down the man that had killed him. He worked the bolt of his rifle frantically. There were only six more of the enemy to go. They had to get them all, for O'Rourke's sake.

Four of the enemy were standing when the scope came up to Vey's eye again. Another fighter died. Peering through the scope again, Vey saw O'Rourke waver, struck in the thigh. He was then immediately hit by multiple rounds in the head and neck. Vey could only watch helplessly as O'Rourke's lifeless body crumpled to the earth and the enraged ANA soldiers took out their vengeance on the three remaining volunteers.


	26. Nothing But Empty

"Desperation strips me

These last days have not

Been free

Stealing every breath

From me

Whispering defeat"

"In Dreams"- Kittie

03 July 2004

En Route From Afghanistan

There were several more empty seats on the British Aerospace 146 jet. This fact would have dimmed the mood of the men on the plane. They had something to distract them from thoughts of their lost compatriots and raise their spirits, however.

Balach roamed up and down the rows of seats visiting each NextGen man in turn. Even if the man did not speak Pashtun, he and the boy found a way - be it through gestures or the bits of English Balach had managed to learn in the last few days - to communicate. Balach made a point or sitting with, or on the lap of, each member of the team. Before he moved on to the next man, he made a point of hugging the man and saying thank you.

Warrant Officer Traynor and Staff Sergeant Barton received extra visiting time from Balach. He curled up in Barton's lap and chatted away, knowing he had a friend who could understand him. Since Barton and Traynor were sitting next to each other, the boy switched laps often as he talked with them. Barton would translate for Traynor.

The animated conversation drew the attention of a few of the other NextGen men. Some of them stood in the aisle to listen while two knelt in the seats in front of Traynor and Barton, facing backward. The sight of an audience only made the smile on Balach's face grow all the more. The men fired off little comments and questions at him which Barton translated. Balach would answer through Barton. Sometimes he would hear Barton say a word he knew and would repeat it. This would always bring a grin to the lips of the men around him.

At the head of the plane in the first class section, Ashton and Dublin stood to watch the goings-on in the rear of the jet. They did nothing to interfere, only observed and occasionally chuckled.

"The lad seems to have made some friends," said Dublin.

"That's a good thing," commented Ashton. A moment later, he added, "His new family. Two dozen new brothers."

"What's going to happen with him when we get home?"

"The only thing that makes sense to me," replied Aston, "is to bring him to my home. Go about adopting him."

Sather commented from his seat. "As if you don't have enough kids in your family already. Two adopted children. Two Immortal teens. Alyssa now and then. And now a third child who doesn't even speak English and is a different religion than all of you. You really are a glutton for punishment."

Ashton glanced down at the Watcher. He nodded, acknowledging the point. "What other option is there?"

"I'm not saying there is one," said Sather. "I'm just saying it won't be easy living with him is all. It will be a challenge for a while, at least until he adapts to being a part of the family. It could take a long time."

"You're right, Devon." Ashton nodded again. "It very well could."

"Frankly, I'm amazed you were able to get a passport and visa for the kid so quickly," admitted Dublin. "That was nothing short of a miracle."

"Other than my money, that was all Niles Harrington's doing. He was the real mastermind behind that one."

"Is that why you keep him around?" asked Sather.

"Truly good deputy commanders are difficult to find," said Ashton. "I struck gold with him. I only hope I can convince the Ministry of Defence to let me keep him here when it comes time for him to be promoted. Presuming he wants to stay, that is."

"Hell, why would he want to leave?" Sather inquired. "He makes more money with NextGen than he would as a colonel in the army, right?"

"Yes," said Ashton simply.

"What does a colonel make?" asked Sather.

"£81,000 to £89,000 per year," Ashton said immediately.

"And what do you pay him?"

"£300,000 per year."

"And he doesn't get taxed on whatever he makes above his military salary, right?"

"Correct," replied Ashton.

"Damn," said Sather. "That's a hell of a deal. Why would anyone leave that? By the way, what does a brigadier make anyway?"

"£98,000 to £101,000 per year."

"Should I even ask what your NextGen salary is?" Sather eyed Ashton warily. Ashton grinned at him.

"Are you sure you want the answer to that question?"

"Well, now that's it's dangling out there, yeah, why the hell not?"

Dublin laughed from Ashton's other side. "Remember, Dev, before he says anything, you're the one who asked."

"I know. I know." The Watcher grimaced and looked up at Ashton.

"£419,000 per year," said Ashton with a smirk.

"Holy shit! That's over six hundred fifty thousand dollars in American money."

"And…?" Ashton looked down at Sather and waited.

Sather slapped his palm to his forehead. "I forgot who I was talking to for a moment. That's chump change to you, Daddy Warbucks." He met Ashton's gaze again. "So if you're not doing this for the money, why are you doing it? I can partially understand just being with these sorts of special men, but that can't be all of it."

"And you'd be right," admitted Ashton. "That's not all of it."

Sather narrowed his eyes, looking into Ashton's face, at that tiny mocking grin. He racked his brain for everything he knew of the Immortal. His jaw dropped. He stood, his eyes now slightly higher than Ashton's. The Watcher smiled broadly as the realization came to him.

"The intelligence connections. That's the ultimate reason why you're doing this. What's more valuable than information?"

Ashton returned the smile. "Congratulations. You're finally starting to see the big picture."

xxxxxxxxxx

03 July 2004

Hereford, England

Near NextGen Headquarters

The Aerospace 146 landed at Stirling Lines at 2124 local time. Despite having notified the families of their return, only a few civilians waited to greet the team members at NextGen headquarters. The NextGen men had one last duty to perform before they departed for home.

The setup was simple, just a podium with a microphone and speakers. Since there was not an assembly hall in NextGen headquarters, the gathering took place at the airfield nearby. The entirety of the regiment was present. Though only a contingent had been ordered to do so, all had chosen to attend. They were also, for a change, all in uniform. Colonel Harrington brought them to attention as Ashton approached the formation. Executing an about face, he saluted his commander. Ashton returned it. Stepping to the microphone, Ashton began.

"At ease. Thank you for coming, everyone. For the sake of time, I will keep this brief. As you have heard already, we lost several of our brothers during our most recent mission: Brian King, Calvin Linux, Chad Meeker, David Sturdivant, Dennis O'Rourke, and Trevor Trent. Ten more of our brethren have been wounded: Clint Chastain, Michael Winston, Vihaan Ranganathan, Michael O'Briain, Terrance Austin, Akira Noriyama, Brad Namath, Brent Styers, Joshua Grant, and Phillip Shelton. In this same battle, twelve members of the Afghan National Army were killed and another twenty-one wounded.

"The sacrifices sting and we all feel it. Every one of us. However, we must also consider what these men accomplished that day. They faced over five hundred enemy combatants that day. By official count by the American Army, two hundred forty-nine bodies and one hundred ninety-three wounded were found on the field of battle. NextGen took eighteen as captives and the American took all of the wounded as prisonders. To our enemies, our brothers were the nightmares were personify ourselves to be. We should be proud of them.

"In honor of the sacrifices of our brethren, I am authorizing non-chargeable leave from today through 18 July for teams three and four of Alpha Company. The alert teams and all other staff will have similar leave through 11 July. Rotation schedules will be worked out by Colonel Harrington and Sergeant Major Dublin so mandatory duties are always met. Take this time to remember them properly. That is all I have for you. Thank you.

"Twenty-fourth Regiment," called Ashton, using the corporation's unofficial moniker. "Attention." The regiment snapped to attention.

"Fall out."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Are you ready to go, boss?" Dublin leaned into Ashton's office. "It's well after midnight, you know?"

Ashton looked up from his notes, finally allowing the strain of the last several hours to show on his face. He nodded silently.

"Have you met with all the widows?" asked Dublin, his voice more somber.

Ashton nodded again. "And the parents of Sergeant O'Rourke and Corporal Trent. They were not married." He lowered his eyes to the notes on his desk and signed. "Remember the Tenbun War, Darren?"

Dublin leaned on the doorway and nodded. "Aye, we and a thousand samurai were battling it out against insane odds for a week. Somehow, two hundred of us lived to tell of it."

Ashton stood slowly and walked around the desk. "I don't know about you, but I still have dreams of that week. Not just that battle, but others like it. I tell you now, sometimes I think I'd rather go through a thousand such events then look into the eyes of those family members again."

Dublin grinned, but there was no humor behind it. "All part of the burden of command, it is."

"All too true," said Ashton, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder, "and it's heaviest at times like this. Let's go home." He stepped through the door. "Where's Balach?"

"He's with Dev. They're waiting for us at the front entrance."

They found Sather sitting in a chair near the front door. His ankles were crossed in front of him as he leafed through a magazine he'd found on a nearby table. Balach was curled up in the chair next to him. His hands were crossed on the armrest, resting atop them and nudging against Sather's arm as he slept. Ashton smiled at the sight. The boy was so small that one of his own children could easily sit in the chair, as well.

Sather looked up as they approached. He uncrossed his ankles, preparing to stand as military courtesy dictated when a commanding officer enters a room. Ashton held out his hand, palm down, and waved it side to side, negating the action. Instead, he pointed at Balach. Sather nodded and gently shook the boy's shoulder.

Balach opened his eyes and glanced around. Briefly, he obviously did not recognize his surroundings. His dark eyes seemed all the larger with his surprise. He blinked and yawned as he sat up. He was better now. The eyes widened again as a flash of light from outside reflected off the window.

"It's okay," said Ashton softly in Pashtun. "It's just a car. It's come to take us home."

"Home?" the boy asked, suppressing another yawn.

Ashton walked up to Balach's chair and squatted down in front of him. "Yes, you're coming to live with me for a while."

Balach looked at him, confused. Confusion turned to suspicion as his eyes darted from each man to the next. "When Asfan Dhanial took me to a new home, that was when I had to start dancing…and more. What do I have to do for you?"

"Nothing," said Ashton soothingly, "except play with my children. Sleep in a warm bed. Eat good food. Go to a good school. Be a happy boy. Grow up to be a good man. That is all I want."

"No dancing? No…?" He choked at the thought of what followed the dancing.

"No," Ashton reiterated as he put a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. "No dancing. Just be part of the family."

"Really?" Balach asked, his voice breaking. A tear slid from one eye.

"Truly."

For the first time, Balach reached out to Ashton, wrapping his arms around his neck. He smiled as Ashton picked him up effortlessly and buried his face in the Immortal's shoulder. Ashton stood.

"I believe it's time to go," he said to the others.

xxxxxxxxxx

Tristan knocked twice on Johnny's bedroom door. He flexed his toes in the thick carpet as he waited three heartbeats for a reply. He placed a hand on the door lever in expectation.

"Come in," came the mumbled invitation.

Tristan depressed the lever and entered. Johnny and Alyssa had clearly fallen asleep while waiting for Ashton to return. The lamp on Johnny's bedside table was still on. Johnny, in his usual pajama pants, was slowly sitting up on his bed. Alyssa had been resting with her head on his shoulder. She was roused now by his movement.

"Is he here yet?" she asked, rolling onto her back.

Tristan shook his head. "Not yet. George just called and said they're leaving HQ. They'll be here in a few minutes."

Johnny stood up and retrieved a t-shirt from the chair by his bed. Alyssa slid her feet into a pair of slippers. Tristan looked at the girl quizzically.

"Isn't Balach going to be a bit shocked seeing you dressed like that?" he asked with a smirk.

Alyssa glanced down at her long-sleeved silk pajamas. She returned her friend's smile. "Not as much as he would be if I wore my typical shorts and camisole now, would he?"

Johnny giggled. "Definitely not as much as that. He's probably never seen a pretty girl's face in his life. Poor kid."

"I guess we'll find out," said Tristan.

They walked down the stairs to join the rest of the assembled group. Asami, Vivia, Paula, Marc, and Tally as well as Matt Woodham and John Boatwright and their wives were all waiting in the living room. Rachel Lehr had even quickly changed out of her uniform into civilian clothes after the memorial ceremony in order to be present. Beth Boatwright and Lily Woodham both held Marc and Tally in front of them, palms gently laid across their chests, to keep the excited children from jumping around too much. Marc and Tally, for their part, used the wives, to use Tally's words, as "PLPs, personal leaning posts," and were content to stay where they were for now.

Matt glanced at his wife and smiled. Putting an arm around her, he said, "Now, I think I have a slight idea what it was like for you when you were waiting for me to come home."

Lily leaned her head into her husband's shoulder. "Maybe, a little bit. Imagine if your friend had been gone for a year or more."

"I'd hate it if Daddy went away for a year," said Tally, craning her head up to look at Lily.

Patting her hands on the girl's chest lightly like a tiny drum, Lily gazed down into her wide blue eyes and responded, "We're very lucky. Your daddy and his soldiers were only gone for two weeks. There are a lot of British and American soldiers who have to go away for twelve or even fifteen months."

Tally's expression turned to one of horror. Her brother expressed, in his own way, her thoughts.

"That's such a long time. You'd miss one, maybe even two birthdays. And think of all the playtime, hugs, and bedtime stories you wouldn't have. That's so sad."

"You're right," said Tally, reaching over to take her brother's hand. "We are very lucky."

"Is Daddy going to bring us another big brother tonight?" asked Marc.

"I think so," replied Tally.

"Tristan, you won't love us any less because you have another little brother, will you?"

Beth ruffled Marc's hair as Tristan knelt in front of the boy. "Of course not. It just means we have someone else to play with." Knowing Marc would enjoy the gesture, Tristan leaned forward and rubbed the tip of his nose against the child's. Marc's grin was enormous.

"We will have to be patient with him," reminded Tristan. "He doesn't speak English. Do you remember your Arabic?"

Marc nodded with enthusiasm. Tally replied, "Oh, yeah, we hear Daddy speaking it with people all the time so we're both pretty good with it, too."

"That's a language I'm still learning," said Tristan, "so you'll have to teach me."

Marc gave him a thumbs-up, still all grins. "No problem, big brother."

Behind him, Alyssa whispered to Johnny, "He's still the boy with the golden soul." Matt Woodham overheard her and chuckled. Asami just smiled, proud of her children.

Headlights flashed in the driveway outside. The children's barely contained zeal overflowed. They alternated between hops and tremors of excitement, only held back by the visiting wives.

"One moment, dear. Let them come inside," reminded Beth.

Asami stepped to the front door and went outside to greet the men. As she had months before, she stood at the top of the porch stairs, her hands clasped in front of her with a tiny smile on her lips. She waited patiently for the soldiers to come to her.

Inside the car, Ashton could see Asami atop the stairs. She was framed in the bright porch lights and, despite the late hour, looked absolutely radiant. He nudged the little boy in his lap and pointed out the window.

"Do you see that lady? That's Asami. She's going to be your new mother. Isn't she beautiful?"

Balach leaned forward, putting his small hands on the window. "She looks like a very nice lady," he said. "Is she really waiting for us?"

"Yes, and she's going to be so excited when she sees you." His fingers gently caressed the boy's back as he spoke. "Do you remember what to say? The English I taught you?"

Balach nodded.

"Are you ready to meet her? And the rest of the family?"

"I'm scared. But I'm excited at the same time. Part of me wants to go meet her and part of me wants to stay here with you."

"Oh," laughed Ashton, still rubbing the boy's back and giving his arm a squeeze. "That's completely understandable. Do you want to wait in the car a little longer? We don't have to go right now."

Balach turned his head to the window again, his dark eyes blinking several times. He sighed deeply and looked into Ashton's face once more.

"No, let's go. I don't want to keep you from your family any longer. I know they miss you."

Patting Balach's knee, Ashton replied, "Okay, let's go meet the family."

He reached for the door latch and pushed open the heavy door. Letting Balach alight first, he stepped out of the car. Darren Dublin and Devon Sather exited from the other side. Ashton looked up the stairs into Asami's face. With the glare of the porch lighting, she was now just a dark silhouette. A twang of nervousness now twitched within him, as well. He put his hand lightly on Balach's shoulder.

"Let's go see Asami," he said.

They slowly ascended the stairs. Dublin and Sather fell into step behind him. As they neared Asami, Balach instinctively drew nearer to Ashton. He squeezed the boy's shoulder to reassure him - or was it for himself? Reaching the top of the staircase, he looked into Asami's face, finally able to see her dark eyes in shadows.

"Hello, Asami," he said, his voice choking in his throat. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," she replied. Her embrace, her kiss was a welcoming, comforting warmth. Ashton returned it with as much vigor as he could summon, trying to remain upright though he felt he might melt against her at any moment. Grudgingly, he withdrew himself from her arms after a while. The separation of their lips left a deep longing within him.

I haven't felt this way about a woman in a very long time, he realized. Not since Leisha.

Mentally shaking himself from his reverie, Ashton motioned to the boy at his side.

"Asami, I'd like you to meet someone." He turned to Balach, slowly kneeling down next to him. With a comforting hand on the boy's back, he said in Pashtun, "Balach, I'd like you to meet Asami."

His nervousness apparent, Balach took a step forward. He slowly extended his hand to the woman and, in halting English, said, "Hello, my name is Balach."

Asami took the boy's hand in hers and gently shook it. She knelt before him, as well, in the Japanese style, and responded in rehearsed Pashtun, "Khushala shum pa li do di, Balach." (Pleased to meet you, Balach.)

Both Ashton and Balach grinned at Asami's reply. Balach looked into Ashton's face, excitement on his countenance.

"You didn't tell me she spoke my language," he said.

Ashton laughed. "She doesn't. She practiced that just for you."

Looking back at Asami, Balach said, "Manana." He then thought for a moment, creasing his brows with the effort, before adding, "Thank you."

With a little squeal of excitement, Asami leaned forward and cupped Balach's face in her hands. His eyes widened in surprise at the gesture but he did not resist her. She smiled widely at him and leaned in further, rubbing her nose against his before releasing him. Balach took a step back, greater astonishment registering on his face. It then slowly transitioned to a shy smile. After another moment, the boy's inhibition fell away and the grin blossomed into a full toothy smile.

"Oh," cried Asami, partially concealing her broadening grin with one hand. "He's so kawaii (cute) when he smiles. And those big, dark eyes of his are gorgeous."

"I do believe you've made a new friend," observed Ashton.

Slowly rising to her feet, Asami said, "Now we just have to learn how to talk to each other."

"How's your Arabic? He speaks that fairly well."

"Ooh." Her brow furrowed. "I picked up a few words and phrases from you and the kids, but I'm nowhere near fluent."

Ashton nodded. "It's going to be a challenge for all of us. We'll overcome it."

Asami stepped to Ashton's other side and slid an arm around his waist. He put an arm on her shoulder and smiled.

"Let's not worry about that right now," she said. Glancing behind her, she declared, "We have two men behind us who would like to come inside and a whole lot of people in the living room who want to see the three of you."

"Oh?" asked Ashton. "The kids aren't asleep?"

"With their daddy coming back home? Of course not." She squeezed his waist and then pushed him. "In you go."

Taking the hint, Ashton walked the few paces to the door and opened it. He had barely registered the feel of the light air conditioning on his skin when he was greeted with a dual chorus of "Daddy!" and the sight of two smiling faces rampaging toward him. The brief view of others in the room was eclipsed by the approach of the excited children.

Tally reached him first, clamping her arms around him. Marc was only a second behind her. Ashton knelt down on both knees and pulled them closer to him. Both children planted kisses on his face. He could not prevent the grin from spreading across his lips. First Tally then Marc took the grin as a target of opportunity and placed another kiss directly on his lips before hugging him again. Ashton could only laugh and squeeze the frantic little bodies to him.

"We missed you, Daddy," Marc stated as he loosened his hug, "but we're so glad you're back."

"And we want to keep you here at home," interjected Tally. "Please stay with us for a very long time."

"That's what I want, too, little girl. I hope I can stay home for a long time, also." He pulled them to him again, revelling in their energy and affection.

"Oh, God."

Dublin's exclamation caught Ashton's attention. He glanced back at the Irishman still standing in the doorway. Dublin's gaze was fixed straight ahead. Only then did Ashton finally look forward and actually notice the other people in the room. Aside from the rest of the people in his informal family, it was the four additional people that held his concentration. His jaw dropped involuntarily.

Ashton patted his children twice on the back and rose to his feet. He could feel his face reddening as he approached the group. Despite wanting to greet him themselves, the Immortal teens stepped aside to wait while he offered his hand to the two old soldiers.

"John, Matt," said Ashton, his voice thick with embarrassment as they shook his hand. "I'm so sorry. I completely forgot about your visit. Please accept my humblest of apologies."

"That was my fault, sir," injected Rachel Lehr. "I should have looked into Val's notes."

Ashton's waved off her self-accusation. "It's my fault ultimately. I made the invitation and I forgot." Turning his gaze back to the men, he said, "My friends, please forgive me."

Matt laughed as he shook his head. "There's nothing to forgive. The moment we learned what had happened and where you were, we had nothing to complain about."

"And we were already here," said John. "We decided to make the best of it. Asami, Johnny, Alyssa, and your wonderful children have made it quite an enjoyable vacation so far."

"Thank you," replied Ashton, smiling self-deprecatingly.

"And Asami leads one hell of a Filipino martial arts class, by the way," added John. "She's been smoking us every day since we got here."

Ashton glanced at Asami and then back at the men. "You've been taking her class?"

"Oh, yes," said Lily. "It's a nice way to get the blood flowing. John hasn't looked so happy in years."

"I'm so sorry," replied Ashton. "I haven't introduced myself. I'm David Ashton." He smiled as Lily. The smile widened when she offered her hand to him.

"I'm Lily," she said. Ashton shook her hand and was pleased to find that she did not have a dead-fish shake. He turned to Beth and repeated the introduction, receiving a similar handshake. Mentally, he nodded. These women had either been brought up well or had learned the art of the handshake from their husbands. Based on their demeanor, he was inclined to think the former. Either way, they had impressed him.

He turned back to the retired soldiers. With a wide grin, he said, "We have a lot of catching up to do, my friends."

"Yes, we do," agreed John.

"But who do we have here?" asked Matt, gesturing toward the doorway. Balach stood silently next to Asami watching the men. His eyes widened slightly upon being singled out.

"Ah, yes," said Ashton, crossing the room and placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I would like all of you to meet someone. For those who may not know, he is an orphan from Afghanistan. He is going to be staying here for a little while, perhaps longer." With a light squeeze on Balach's shoulder, he said in Pashtun, "Balach, this is my family."

Balach scanned the room, his eyes resting on each person for a moment before moving to the next. He shifted his feet as he took a deep breath. Squaring his thin shoulders, he stood up straight and said, slightly better than before, "Hello, my name is Balach."

The assembled group grinned and gathered together. As one, they faced the boy and said, "Khe chare, Balach." (Hello, Balach)

Again, both Ashton and the boy grinned at the greeting. "I see his coming has not been a total surprise to everyone," Ashton stated. "Excellent."

Looking across the room, Ashton spoke again. "Alyssa, would you help me, please? Practically no one here speaks Pashtun but Balach is fairly fluent in Arabic. Would you please translate for him as I talk?"

"Sure," Alyssa replied, approaching the boy with a grin on her lips.

Balach's eyes widened in amazement at the sight of the dark-haired beauty coming toward him. Her emerald eyes captivated him as she knelt in front of him.

"Hello, Balach," she said. "My name is Alyssa. I'm going to translate for you. Is Arabic okay?"

Wordlessly, Balach nodded. Laughing softly, Alyssa ruffled his hair and stood to move behind him.

Ashton cleared his throat and began, stepping into the open area of the room as he spoke. "As I said, Balach is going to be staying with me and my family for a while. It's going to be a challenge for all of us. He speaks little English and only some of us speak Arabic. We will all overcome this language barrier, though.

"Also, he is a very smart boy. I am confident he will be able to learn English very quickly. He has already picked up several words and phrases just in the last few days. I know that, with love and patience, we will be able to accept him into our family and give him the life and upbringing he deserves."

Ashton turned to face Balach, waiting until Alyssa finished whispering the last few words into his ear. He smiled broadly at the boy. His voice rose slightly as he intoned the last words of his brief speech.

"Welcome to your new home, Balach. Welcome to my family."

Alyssa also raised her voice above a whisper. As her translation ended, Balach's slender body visibly trembled. Tears welled up in his dark eyes and slid down his cheeks. A sob broke free from his lips as he rushed across the two meter distance between himself and Ashton. He wrapped his arms tightly around the Immortal's waist and buried his face in the man's tunic. His body shook silently as the room exploded in applause.

Ashton squeezed Balach's arm again before gently reaching down and lifting him up. Letting the boy sit on one arm, Ashton lightly brushed the tears away from his thin face with a knuckle. He touched the tip of Balach's nose with a fingertip and smiled at him. Balach returned the smile through tear-filled eyes.

"You're safe now, little one. No more dancing. No more abuse. Only a warm bed, good food, and people who love you. Can you be brave and learn how to live with us? Learn how to talk to us?"

Balach nodded, pressing himself into Ashton again. "Manana," he whispered into his ear. Almost immediately, he corrected himself, speaking in English, "Thank you."

"Now, let's find this brave boy a place to sleep, okay?"

Balach nodded again and let himself be lowered back to his feet. Ashton turned to face the people in the room again. He raised a finger, as if counting them.

"Hmm," he said. "It seems all nine of my bedrooms are taken."

"Don't worry about that," Johnny proclaimed, stepping forward. "We've already taken care of that."

"Really? How?"

Alyssa came up beside the Minoan and answered the question. "I moved into Johnny's room."

Ashton looked down at her in surprise. "You did?"

Alyssa shrugged. "I spend half of my nights there anyway and his bed is plenty large enough for both of us. Besides, the room I was in is one of the better rooms since it has a private bathroom. It'll be like a palace to Balach."

Ashton grinned, nodding his head. "If you saw where he lived before, it certainly will."

"We did," said Johnny.

Ashton's gaze snapped in Johnny's direction, shock on his face. "You did? You saw what happened that night?"

"Yeah," replied Johnny. "All of it. Almost everyone in here was in the TOC watching what happened through your helmet cams."

"It was horrible," said Tristan. "All of it."

Matt Woodham chuckled. "Boat and I got to see Captain Asher and Master Sergeant White up to their old tricks again. It made us start reminiscing about Đắk Tô for a little while."

Ashton grimaced. "Ugh. No one wants to reminisce about Đắk Tô, Matt." Looking down at Balach, he said, "Well, it looks like I owe a few kids some attention and then we need to get this little guy off to bed."

"Well," stated Alyssa, "since I'm right here then let me go first." She gave him a long embrace and then stood up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "Welcome home, David Ashton. You've been missed more than you realize." Reaching for Balach's hand, she said, "I'll take him up to his room."

"Thank you, Alyssa."

Having already greeted Dublin and Sather and now finally free to express their feelings to Ashton, Johnny and Tristan burst forth, each of them taking a side and doing their best to crush him. The Minoan nearly stumbled back. He placed a hand on each of their backs, rubbing them lightly in reply. He knelt in front of them.

"You have no idea how much I have missed the two of you," he said, pulling them to him again.

"Well, it's mutual," said Johnny.

"Yeah, it was," Tristan agreed.

"Does this mean you're not afraid of me anymore, little man?" Ashton inquired, looking into Tristan's eyes.

Tristan smiled shyly. His arms were still around the Minoan as he responded, "No, not anymore. I was stupid to have ever been afraid of you. Johnny was right. You just want to help me and you've welcomed me into your family."

Tristan looked back at the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. "Just like you did for Balach. I saw his face when he met you. He was never afraid. Why should I be? He already adores you and I've been foolish not to do the same and to be thankful for all the help you've given me. Will you forgive me?"

His hands rubbing both boys' backs, Ashton replied, "Just like my old friends over there said a little while ago, there's nothing to forgive. Johnny was the same way at one time. Now, would you two mind helping Alyssa put Balach to bed?"

"Sure," said Johnny. Tristan nodded and followed him up the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxx

04 July 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Everyone slept in the next morning, whether military or civilian. They straggled in for a late breakfast around ten o'clock. Asami, Rachel Lehr, and Paula joined them, as well. Even Devon Sather, Vivia Wales, and Darren Dublin accepted the invitation to dine with them. The only ones not present by ten were Alyssa and Balach. When the two did arrive nearly fifteen minutes later as everyone else was sipping coffee or juice, the former wore a forced smile on her face while the latter looked thoroughly embarrassed. Alyssa took her usual place next to Johnny. Balach sat between her and Tristan.

"Was something wrong?" asked Ashton from the head of the table.

"I'll tell you later," replied Alyssa lightly. "It's not exactly a breakfast topic."

Ashton nodded and let it drop. Alyssa leaned closer to Balach to explain the breakfast options to him in whispered tones.

"You mean like how I'm going to make Devon suffer inexorably for running off with the boys to Afghanistan isn't a breakfast topic?" inquired Vivia, a smirk on her face. Sather blushed as she spoke. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but she silenced him with a look.

"Oh, no," she added. "I saw every risk you took on that helmet camera of yours. And for each crazy chance you took, I'm going to come up with some awful Herculean task around the house for you to complete." She sat back in her chair and grinned prettily across the table at him. "So enjoy your breakfast, my dear. You're going to need the energy."

Sather refrained from comment and turned to Terry to give his breakfast order, instead. Vivia smiled in her triumph. Johnny stared at her in awe.

"My gosh, Viv," he gushed. "If you jerk his chain any harder, you're going to pull that ring right out of his nose."

Everyone at the table laughed, even Vivia and Sather. After a moment, Balach joined them as Alyssa translated the joke. He looked at Sather with a broad smile and fired off a rapid response in Arabic. Alyssa giggled.

"What did he say?" asked Sather.

"He said he's never seen a cow walk on two legs before," she replied with a grin.

Sather pointed a finger at the boy in preparation to respond, but the chuckling around the table gagged him before a word passed his lips. He lowered his finger and smiled.

"It'll take a long…" began Johnny before Alyssa slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Shush," she said. "There are decent people here."

"There are?" he asked, pulling her hand away. He then looked directly at the visitors' wives and Marc and Tally. He then blushed. "Sorry."

"What were you about to say?" asked Beth.

"Something quite inappropriate," answered Alyssa.

"Yes," agreed Johnny, squirming into in chair. "Nevermind."

"It can't be worse than things I've heard Matt say," said Lily. "Go ahead, Johnny."

Perked up by the encouragement, Johnny sat up in his seat. Alyssa covered her eyes in embarrassment. Johnny pointed at Sather as he said, "I was going to say, it will take a long time to get a gallon of milk from that cow."

"What does that mean?" asked Tally as the rest of the table laughed. Marc also looked about for confirmation.

"Nevermind that, dear," said Beth. "Alyssa was right. It was inappropriate."

xxxxxxxxxx

As breakfast broke up, Tristan had a moment of recall. He tapped Ashton's arm as they entered the living room. Ashton sat on the couch and regarded him with a questioning gaze. Asami, Rachel, Dublin, Alyssa, Balach, and Johnny also sat nearby, but remained silent. He smirked before speaking.

"I think I'll let Alyssa go first," he said, taking a seat in one of the recliners. "She's been waiting for a while, too."

Alyssa smiled at him. She ruffled Balach's hair before she said anything.

"Thank you, dear," she said, regarding Tristan. "I was going to say something about our new little boy here. I didn't want to embarrass him in front of everyone at the table. Anyway, when I went to collect him for breakfast, I found him washing his hands after doing his morning business and, well…"

She blushed before continuing. "It wasn't his fault. He was just doing what he knew. He had done what he needed to do, cleaned himself with his left hand, wiped his hand all over the wall, used the toilet paper to get the last bits off his fingers, and then washed his hand in the sink. That's when I came in."

"I cleaned up everything and explained to him that we do things a bit differently - like not using the walls for wiping - and that he would have to adjust to the change in culture. Obviously, he was embarrassed and I promised I would not tell everyone about it, just you. I think he is only now realizing the extent of the culture shock he is going to encounter." She pulled the boy closer as she added, "Poor little guy."

Ashton grinned as he placed his elbows on his knees and, briefly, his head in his hands. He looked up at the others in the room. After a moment, he chuckled.

"That was an aspect of Middle Eastern culture I forgot to consider when I brought him here; such a simple fact as bathroom hygiene."

Beside him, Asami was aghast. "He used his hand? To clean himself in the bathroom?"

Rachel Lehr put a hand on the woman's shoulder. Asami turned to face her as she nodded. "Did you notice that he only used his right hand when he ate?" Asami replied with her own nod.

"In their culture, the left hand is for personal hygiene and is washed with water afterward. It is considered unclean for eating, like you saw. What Alyssa just described is perfectly normal for them. To us, of course, it's absolutely disgusting.

"On a lighter note, consider the Japanese custom of refusing a gift the first time it's given. It would be quite odd for a British person to refuse something three times before accepting it, but normal in Japan. If you didn't do it in Japan, you've committed a faux pax. It's all cultural differences. Some are just more extreme than others."

"Are we interrupting?" asked Matt Woodham as he, Lily, and the Boatwrights entered the room, coffee cups and saucers in their hands. Marc and Tally appeared just long enough to scamper up the stairs, giggling. Balach asked Alyssa if he could join them. With a pat on his back, she sent him running along in their wake.

"Not at all," said Ashton. "Please have a seat. Tristan was just about to ask something."

Tristan waited until everyone was seated before he spoke. He then looked across into Ashton's eyes, tapping his fingers on the overstuffed arm of the chair as he formed the words.

"Last night, Johnny and Alyssa were helping Balach get settled into his new room. Of course, he was enamored by it all and wanted to explore it. While they were doing that, I came back down to bring up his belongings."

John Boatwright chortled. "A room like that, along with its own bathroom, might as well be a palace to a boy like him."

Tristan grinned at the comment. "You'd think so from his reaction. He was looking in, behind, and under everything. He couldn't believe the bed was just for him, either. He said it was too big. It had to be for a family."

"Anyway, when I brought his stuff up, there were two bags and his prayer rug. He went straight for one of the bags and the rug but left me with the other bag. That one was a backpack. I set it out in the hall while we were playing with him and didn't think about it until I left. I took it to my room afterward."

"Did you take a look at what was inside it?" asked Ashton.

"Yeah," I peeked into it this morning. There was a laptop and a lot of papers."

Ashton squinted his eyes, a trace of confusion evident on his features. "Bring it down, please, Tristan."

Tristan hopped out of his chair and ran up the stairs. Ashton picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, his eyes half closed.

"What do you think it is?" asked Asami. "Balach wouldn't have a laptop."

"No, he wouldn't," replied Ashton, flicking his gaze toward Dublin. "I think there may have been a mix-up when the gear was unloaded last night. We'll find out momentarily."

Dublin looked up as Tristan was halfway down the staircase. The sight of the bag told him all he needed to know.

"Aye," he said. "It's Farid's backpack. Looks like I'll need to have a word with the lads on the flightline to be a little more punctilious in their work."

"Ooh, good word, Darren," responded Johnny mockingly. "Did you munch on a thesaurus last night?"

"Hey, kid, just because I don't always used five-pound words doesn't mean I can't."

Ashton waved his hand dismissively. "There's no need to get too distraught, at the moment. A word should be made, naturally, but the good news is we still have positive control of the laptop. For now, we may as well take a look at it."

Asami put a hand on his knee. "David, you just got back and we have company."

Tristan stood at the end of the coffee table clutching the backpack. He looked to Ashton for a response. The Minoan's gaze swept around the room briefly. He then nodded.

"You're right, Asami. I should give it a rest, shouldn't I?" He looked back up at Tristan. "Would you keep that in your room until tomorrow? I'll drop it off at the office then."

Tristan's shoulders sank. "Sure, I can do that," he said, a hint of glumness in his voice. He perked up slightly as he asked, "In the meantime, may I look around in here and see what I find?"

Ashton's expression turned curious. "Do you think you can get through whatever security he has on it? And he may not be using English. It may be in Arabic."

"That's no problem," said Alyssa. "We've been teaching Tristan Arabic since he got here. And don't forget our little man's hacking abilities."

"Yeah, and he's becoming really good at Arabic," added Johnny.

"Really?" asked Ashton. "How do you have time for that every day?"

"It's not easy," answered Tristan. "I have to get up every morning at four to work out with Johnny for two hours. Then I shower and have breakfast. Asami has her Filipino martial arts class at eight thirty. My math tutor is from ten to eleven thirty. Lunch is an hour at noon. I then have a free hour. Systema is at two o'clock. My writing tutor is from three thirty to five. I spend another hour and a half as study time and then dinner is at six thirty. After that, I study Arabic with Johnny on Mondays and Tuesdays from eight to nine thirty. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, I spend the same time learning Hebrew with Alyssa."

"My gosh," said Matt. "That's quite a day. And you do that five days a week?"

"Six, except for the tutors," corrected Tristan. "For everything else it's every day except for Saturday. And Asami has let me have a break from the tutors while you guys are here." He gestured at the Woodhams and Boatwrights as he spoke. "And I get today off, too."

"That's still a full day usually," said Beth.

"Yeah," agreed John. "No wonder we haven't seen much of you except martial arts classes and the evenings since we've been here."

"And why you always look so tired," added Lily.

Johnny grinned at that comment. "He's getting a lot better at the physical stuff. You should have seen him on the first day. He was wiped out."

Tristan smiled at the compliment. He looked back at Ashton. The man nodded.

"Give it a shot," he said. "Let me know if you find anything."

"Can do," chirped Tristan, smiling and clutching the bag tighter as he turned and ran up the stairs.

Alyssa and Johnny stood from the couch. Taking Johnny's hand, Alyssa announced, "He might need some language help. We'll go up and see what assistance we can offer." With that, she led Johnny away.

Dublin also stood from his recliner. Momentarily, he had a sheepish expression on his face, but quickly recovered. Clearing his throat, he said, "The children may need some adult supervision…and someone to ferry snacks and drinks to them." He then walked toward the stairs, as well.

Not even waiting for him to be out of earshot, Ashton responded, "I see Darren is back in "kid mode" again."

"Fuck off," replied Dublin from halfway up the stairs, laughter in his own voice. Just before entering Tristan's room, he fired off a sarcastic, "Sir," at the end.

Chuckling again, the remainder of the living room group leaned back into their seats.

"Well," said Ashton. "We're alone at last."

xxxxxxxxxx

Tristan opened the laptop and pressed the power button. The first thing he noticed was the double-lettering on the keyboard. Each key also had an Arabic character above the Latin letter. He scanned the keyboard layout again. Some of the keys were in different positions then they were for American computers. Some characters were not present at all while new characters took their places. He tapped a finger on his desk, thinking.

Johnny and Alyssa pulled up chairs to sit near him. Dublin sat on the bed behind the three teens. The login screen appeared on the monitor. It wanted a password in Arabic. Tristan examined the computer again. It was relatively new, maybe a year or so old. It was using a Windows XP operating system. He understood that one. Tristan held the power button down for several seconds. The computer switched off. He connected a mouse to the laptop.

He then turned it on again. As the boot sequence began again, he held down the F8 key. A DOS screen appeared in English. Using the arrow keys, Tristan selected "Safe Mode" and hit Enter. A long list of bypassed sequence codes scrolled by on the screen until finally the login screen appeared again. He clicked the "Administrator" option. A home screen loaded with the words "Safe Mode" appeared at all four corners. Tristan sat back with relief.

"He didn't set an administrator password. This will be easy. I just have to remove his password and then we're in."

"Woah," said Dublin. "I didn't think you'd be able to get into it so quickly."

"Most people don't know much about computer security. He probably thought a password in Arabic would be secure enough," replied Tristan as he continued to select options on the screen and tap keys. "I was fairly positive I could get into this thing without too much trouble. If he used a lot of Arabic, it's the language problem that might trip me up the most."

"Security is getting easier for end users, though. As time goes on, I won't be able to do this so fast. There are all kinds of programs popping up out there that are eventually going to make personal security very easy. All the user will have to do is care enough to take the time to do it."

"What'cha doin', kids?" came a voice from the doorway. Four heads turned to see Paula leaning casually against the threshold. She held a half full glass of orange juice with three fingers in one hand. She had already changed from her breakfast attire into a more formal pantsuit.

"Why so dressed up, Paula?" asked Johnny.

"Even though I like this telework arrangement I now have with my employer, I have found I work a little better if I at least dress the part rather than staying in pajamas all day. By the way, my employer likes this arrangement, too. They say I am more productive this way. I wonder if David would be willing to let me just rent that bedroom indefinitely."

"Hmph," replied Dublin. "Unless he gave you one hell of a deal, I doubt you could afford a room in this house at the market rate. You have seen this entirety of this mansion, haven't you? If he allowed you full access to this place and its staff along with the room, he could easily charge you £5,000 per month."

Paula grinned at him and took a sip from her glass. "And I wouldn't be surprised if I could talk my company into paying all or, at least, a substantial portion of that amount, for me. With the results I've given them lately, they'd see it as a bargain." She stepped into the room. "So anyway, what's going on here?"

"David picked up a laptop while he was in Afghanistan," answered Johnny.

"And Tristan might be able to get into it and tell us what Aadam Farid and his guys are planning to do next," added Alyssa.

"Well, this I must see," said Paula, taking a place next to Dublin on the bed. "How much longer before you're through his security?"

Tristan hit a key and the home screen began the load. "I'm through it now," he announced.

"Wow!" exclaimed Paula. "That was fast."

"He really didn't have any security at the start, except for a password. I've removed that. Now I'm looking for anything else he might have like encryption software or scripts that might delete anything when I try to read it. I doubt he has anything like that, but it's better to be safe."

For two minutes, there was only the sound of tapping keys and the clicking of a mouse.

"Ah," said Tristan. "He's better than I thought. Part of the drive is encrypted. If I try to access it without a password it will auto-delete itself. I have to figure out the password."

"It's probably not in English," suggested Alyssa.

"Probably not," agreed Tristan, staring at the screen.

"What parts are encrypted?" asked Dublin. "What can we not see?"

"Pretty much all the important stuff," Tristan replied. "His email and document folders."

Dublin stood. "I'm getting a Guinness. You kids want one?" Everyone agreed and he walked out.

"How will you get the password?" asked Johnny.

Tristan shook his head. "I either have to get into Farid's head and guess it within three tries or crack the encryption software and find it stored in there. Neither one will be easy."

"Can you crack the software?" queried Alyssa.

Tristan leaned forward again, reading the information on the screen. "He's using an older encryption software. It's called E4M. It came out in 1998. It's open-source so I can learn how it works pretty easily. Still might be some time before I can figure out the password, though."

"Let's get to it, then," said Johnny. He walked over to the stereo system. Seeing that Tristan had no CDs, he left the room and come back two minutes later with a stack from his room. He began to load the five-disc tray. "We might as well have some music to set the mood."

Tristan indicated a bag in the corner of the room. "Alyssa, would you please hand me the laptop in that bag? I don't want to connect this one to the internet. Who knows what it might do?"

"Good point," Alyssa agreed, moving to the corner. She pulled the computer from the bag and opened it. She scanned the keyboard layout quickly. Her brow furrowed. "This is American, isn't it?"

"Yes, why?"

"We'll need a current converter before we plug it into the wall or it might fry. Most American electrical sockets operate on 110 volts AC; European sockets are 220 volts. I did plug an American laptop into an European socket once using only a socket adapter. It worked and the laptop's power converter got very warm like it was overheating. I don't think we want to take the chance, though."

"Do we have one?" asked Tristan, taking the laptop from her.

"Oh, yeah. David has everything," said Johnny. "I'll go get one."

He stood, waiting for Dublin to completely enter the room before exiting. The Irishman distributed a sealed bottle of Guinness to everyone in the room, placing Johnny's on the shelf on Tristan's desk. He pulled a round object from his pocket and pried the top off his bottle.

"What's that, Darren?" queried Alyssa.

"This?" he said, fingering the object before handing it to her. "It's an idea David got from the Americans. Very often, they'll give unit coins - sometimes they call them challenge coins - in lieu of medals for small acts of well-doing, like having the highest rifle score in the battalion. David saw an American commander give a coin to a soldier and thought it was a good idea so he had coins made for our regiment. He also added a bit of utility to them. You can use them to open beer bottles."

Alyssa eyed the coin carefully, turning it slowly in her hands. It was artfully engraved in the shape of a horrifying, coiled, red-eyed, serpent-like demon, its long, open jaws extending outward from the circumference of the coin to form the bottle opener. Several pointed teeth within the jaws allowed for purchase on the cap.

"This is beautiful…and terrifying," she said, as she opened her bottle.

"Well, with a unit call sign of Nightmare, what do you expect?" retorted Dublin.

Alyssa gave the coin to Paula. Johnny returned with a voltage converter and, just in case, a set of socket adapters. He placed the converter on the floor next to Tristan's desk and plugged it in. Alyssa handed him the power cable for the American laptop. He examined it, selected an adapter, and plugged it into the converter. Alyssa placed another mouse on the desk which Tristan attached to the other laptop. Dublin then indicated the bottle of Guinness on the shelf. Johnny took it and accepted the bottle opener from Paula. He turned it over in his hands several times.

"This is new. Very cool."

"Yeah, the boss just got them to hand out to the boys for good deeds now and then."

"They're going to love them," Johnny replied, opening his bottle. He then set it on the desk for Tristan and took his seat again.

"This might be boring for you guys," warned Tristan. "I've got a lot of reading to do."

"That's fine," said Dublin. "Johnny's got the music going to entertain us. Sounds like it's on shuffle. Hey, isn't this song by that Swiss boy, Leandro, the boy who you brought into the music industry who turned out to be a Watcher?"

"Yeah," replied Johnny. "The second youngest Watcher they ever had on their payroll. Before he got into music, the Watchers thought he would be able to get closer to younger Immortals like me."

"Whatever became of him?" asked the Irishman. He took a long pull from his Guinness. "I haven't seen him for several years.

"I kind of fouled it up. The Watchers let him go along with my plan to let him sing and didn't think about tour schedules," answered Johnny. "He wasn't able to keep up the life of a pop star and be a Watcher. After the whole affair with Jean-Claude and Elaine Dukas four years ago, he decided music and touring was too dangerous for him. He just turned eighteen and he's now a Watcher full-time in Spain."

"Who were Jean-Claude and Elaine Dukas?" inquired Paula.

Johnny answered flatly, "A pair of French Immortals turned terrorist-for-hire. They attacked Leandro's concert and killed several of his fans."

"What happened to them?" Paula asked.

"I killed Jean-Claude and then, when she tried to get revenge for it, I killed Elaine. After that, Leandro didn't have the heart for music anymore."

"So that's why his second CD never came out, eh?" asked Dublin.

"Yeah," said Johnny. "He gave me a studio copy of it. Who knows? It might be the only one that exists. Some people even think the last song on his first CD, You Must Not Be Sorry, is his final farewell to his fans."

"That's so sad," stated Alyssa. "He had a beautiful voice."

"Yeah, he did," Johnny agreed, "but I'd rather he be safe then sing again. I don't think that stuff about the last song being a farewell is true since it came out before the Dukas thing but it's an interesting internet conspiracy. Others think he left because his voice was changing or because his parents wanted him out of the business. I guess it's better for them to think that then the real reason. Still it's quite a loss."

"Is this him" asked Alyssa, picking up a CD case.

"Yeah, he was thirteen when that was taken."

Alyssa saw a slender boy in a thin, light brown leather jacket leaning against a light pole. He had one arm draped casually against the back of the pole. The boy had long, shoulder-length blond hair and dark brown eyes. His face, due to his youth, was almost feminine. He was gazing wistfully up at the sky.

"He was gorgeous," commented Alyssa. "I like that jacket. It suits him."

"It was pretty much his trademark," said Johnny. "He wore it at every appearance."

Alyssa opened the case. A picture tucked in with the booklet caught her eye.

"Oh! You have a picture with him. It's so cute."

She held it out for the others to see. The boys were visible from the waist up, facing the camera. Leandro wore his brown jacket with an untucked powder blue t-shirt beneath it while Johnny sported a black leather jacket and a Metallica t-shirt. Their blond and black hair were as much a contrast as their jackets. Even the dark tan of Johnny's skin made him appear much more the evil imp compared to the blond boy at his side. Each boy had an arm around the other's shoulder, pulled closely so their heads were together, and they each wore a bright smile. They were the same height.

Johnny smiled at the sight of the picture. He took the case from Alyssa and gazed at it for several seconds before passing it to Dublin.

"That was taken the night of his final concert, just before the Dukas' attack. That was also when he gave me his second CD. He was so excited. So was I. We thought the world was laid out for him. It all changed that night and was never the same. He was never the same."

Dublin cleared his throat and asked, "What does he do for the Watchers now?"

"He's in their archives and research department. He said he doesn't have it in him to go out in the field, even with the changes Dev put in place."

"Poor kid," muttered Dublin, "still scarred from that night after all these years."

"It sounds like you're still in contact with him," said Paula.

"I am. We email and even talk on the phone sometimes. I went to see him after I left Eton. I was thinking about going again later this summer."

"An Immortal visiting a Watcher?" asked Paula.

"I've got the perfect cover. It's all under the guise of being friends from when he was a singer. He knows about my immortality - hence why I haven't grown - but I supposedly don't know he's a Watcher." Not that it really mattered back when Dev was the boss. We have to be more careful now, of course."

"Maybe you ought to have him come here and give him a break from his work," suggested Dublin.

"That's not a bad idea. He has said he wants to improve his English. Of his seven languages, he says it's his weakest."

"Seven languages by the time he's eighteen?" exclaimed Paula. "That's impressive."

Johnny chuckled. "That's what he spoke by thirteen. He might have picked up another by now and just not told me. Let's see if I can get them all." He counted them on his fingers as he recited the list. "German, Swiss German, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and English."

"Not bad," said Alyssa. "He'd do well in an embassy with those language skills."

"I've said that, too," replied Johnny. "I've told him that his languages will atrophy if he doesn't use them. One day I'll have to drag him out of that library and back into the real world."

"Careful what you wish for, dear," reminded Alyssa, patting his arm. "Make sure the time is right first."

"You're correct, of course." Johnny put his head lightly on her shoulder. "I just worry about my friends."

"As any good friend would," Alyssa replied.

Tristan typed long a series of keys, hit Enter, and then sat back, taking a longer pull from his Guinness.

"Got it," he announced. "It's decrypting now."

"Wow! That was fast," said Alyssa.

"I read well," stated Tristan simply, grinning.

Alyssa mussed his hair and looked at the progress bar. "I'd say you did more than well. I'd say stupendous." Her fingers began to slowly scratch his scalp. His sigh and easy grin signified his enjoyment of it.

"Now we just have to start reading," he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Devon, what are you doing back here?"

Asami waved Sather into the living room and shut the front door. The Watcher's expression was grim. Ashton and the other men stood to welcome the new guest.

"Vivia tricked me," Sather said to the room. "She made me walk the ten kilometers back to the house "to think about all the horrible things" she had planned for me. All that stuff about housework was a trick. When I got there, I found a small suitcase and my laptop on the front porch and the locks had been changed. She wouldn't answer when I knocked. My cell phone was in the laptop case and I tried calling her. She must have changed her number, too, because there was no answer. She even locked up the car so I had to take a taxi back here."

"She dumped you?" asked Lily.

"Well," said Sather, shurgging, "I probably put more stock in the relationship than she did. I'm sure to her we were just close friends. I saw it a little more intimately, of course. If she did dump me for good, I need to find a way to get the rest of my stuff back. There are only enough clothes in that case for a week."

Ashton approached Sather with a smile on his face. "Then, knowing Vivia, she expects you to be there for her when she comes looking for you in a week or two or be gone for good. There's no middle ground with her. That's presuming she doesn't wander off to some distant, godforsaken land in the meantime."

"Yeah, that would be like our little vixen, wouldn't it? I hope that's not the case this time. I've put a lot into this relationship and I value it even if she doesn't."

Sather glanced around the room and suppressed a sigh. He looked into Ashton's eyes. "I wanted to tell you this face-to-face before I went off to a hotel. The cab is waiting outside. You've got my cell number if you need me." He turned to leave.

"Hold on a minute, Devon," said Ashton, catching the man's arm. Sather turned to face him again. "There is no need for you to go to the expense of a hotel when I can put you up here. There is a small guesthouse out back. You can stay there."

Ashton reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. Opening it, he pulled out two twenty pound notes. He gave them to Sather.

"Here. Pay the driver and get your bags. I'll take you to the house."

Sather's eyes fell, embarrassment on his face. Forcing his gaze back to meet Ashton's again, he said, "Thank you, David." He then went back out the door.

Asami, still standing at the door, looked at him with something akin to a glare.

"You know, David, you can't keep taking in every desperate person who crosses our door. We're running out of space."

"I know," he replied, running his hand through his hair, "but this is my fault, too, for letting him go with us."

Asami grinned at that comment. "Well, I can't argue with that remark. We'll make do."

Sather returned with his suitcase and laptop case. The Woodhams and Boatwrights approached from the living room. Rachel Lehr was behind them.

"If you don't mind," began Matt, "we'd like to see this guesthouse, too."

"Certainly," said Ashton.

The guesthouse was a small one-story wooden cottage set one hundred meters back from the rear of the main house. As the group approached, they could see a secondary gate and a private drive to an entrance at the back so its occupants did not have disturb their hosts. They entered through the front door into a cozy living area with a couch, recliner, and coffee table. There was just enough room for them all to stand. Simple but tasteful artwork adored the walls. Ashton led them through the small dining room into a full, though also small, kitchen. The rear door opened into here. Ashton pointed to two open doorways.

"In here, you have the bedroom and here is a utility room with a washer and dryer for your clothes. Through the utility room is the bathroom. There are plenty of sheets, pillow cases, and towels and whatnot in the closet. If there is anything missing, just let Gwen or Sebastian know and they will get it for you. There is no television in here but you do have internet access and a stereo with plenty of CDs of various types.

"This is where I put Darren when he and Siobhan O'Banian both come over to visit. It keeps things quieter for us all. There are some non-perishables in the cabinets but, other than that, you'll need to do some shopping unless you plan to dine with us. You're perfectly welcome to do that, of course."

Sather stood in the kitchen, slowly turning to take in the whole layout. His amazement was plain.

"This is more than I could get at a two-hundred pound per night hotel," he said.

Ashton grinned. "Save your money and think of a way to get back into Vivia's good graces."

"Thank you, David," blushed Sather. "In the meantime, I can catch up on all the things I've missed on the Watcher side of the house while I've been gone."

"That sounds like a good way to drown out the emotion of the moment. Don't forget to relax a little, too."

Ashton looked toward the front door as the tingling of an Immortal's presence rang through his head. Despite knowing that it could only be a friendly Immortal, like Johnny or Tristan, he still felt a momentary sense of unease when he realized he was completely unarmed. He found himself mentally inventorying the kitchen and the location of its knives. Also, in the utility room, he knew there was a concealed shotgun.

The mental preparation turned out to be unnecessary as he had been - mostly - sure it would be. Two seconds later, Johnny came running through the open door, nearly crashing into Beth Boatwright before coming to a full stop. The slight gleam of sweat on his brow and his somewhat increased breathing indicated he had sprinted from the house to the cottage.

"My goodness, Johnny," said Beth, putting a hand out to steady him. "What is it?"

Johnny panted, "Come back to the house. Tristan has found something."

xxxxxxxxxx

Asami kept the wives and Rachel with her in the living room in order to keep Tristan's room from becoming even more crowded. Even so, the addition of four more people around the computer desk made it almost claustrophobic. Johnny finally gave up his chair and asked everyone except Ashton to sit on the bed or the floor. Alyssa gave her seat to Dublin. This was now a military matter.

Tristan pointed at the screen, emphasizing what he had found. He ran his finger along the lines of text as he described them for the men. It was written in English.

"This is an email Aadam Farid sent to Charles Steyn just before your men got to the village in Afghanistan. He says:

Abandon the warehouse as soon as possible. Go to the alternate site. Pollack won't be happy but it can't be helped.

Tell Faisal, Khan, and Awlaki to continue uninterrupted. Tell them local talent may be needed for phase one.

Farid

"Do you know who he means, who those people are?" Tristan asked, leaning back and turning slightly to face Ashton.

"It's possible he means Abdullah el-Faisal, Mohammad Sidique Khan, and Anwar al-Awlaki. They're known extremists in Britain. They've been advocating radical action for years. I wonder what role they play in this."

"I'm thinking smokescreen," said Dublin. "Distraction. Like a magician on stage. Keep the audience focused on the right hand while the left hand does the trick."

"Could be," pontificated Ashton. "We also have a small peek into his mind here. He saw the casualties he was taking and was planning an alternative so his operation is not interrupted. He's a good planner."

"Now what about this warehouse?" asked Tristan.

"I'm not sure," said Ashton. "There are hundreds of them in any given town."

Seconds passed in silence. Dublin sat forward and snapped his fingers. "Croydon," he declared.

"Croydon?" repeated Ashton. Then he grinned. "When we were outbid on the warehouses six weeks ago."

"Exactly," said Dublin. "We put a surveillance team on those warehouses back then but Robyn pulled them after a week after they saw nothing unusual."

"Perhaps we should have left them in place longer," wondered Ashton. "It's certainly worth checking out now."

"And Pollack? Any clue who that might be?" asked Tristan.

"I think I might," answered Ashton, his brow furrowing.

"I've seen that expression on David's face once before," said Alyssa. "Well, almost like that. He had a Clark Gable mustache at the time, but the only person I ever saw who made him look like that was Carlton Pollack."

"Precisely," replied Ashton, "and it fits perfectly."

"Who is Pollack?" asked Tristan again.

Ashton tapped the back of Tristan's chair as the answered the question. "A chemist and smuggler, in the beginning, until he realized he liked blowing things up even more. Now he's an explosives expert. He particularly favors using acetone peroxide as his primary high explosive. If he is the man Farid has contracted to build the bombs for these attacks, this plot just became even more dangerous to the public."

"Immortal, I take it," said Tristan.

"Yes," confirmed Alyssa. "We first ran into him in Chicago in 1929."

Dublin's eyes flashed. "That's when we went to take care of a matter of a stubborn guy and his payments and clearing up the ports so we wouldn't have to keep using the overland routes."

"Right," said Ashton. "Capone and Pollack had another plan…until we convinced them otherwise."

"This sounds like something I'd like to hear," stated Tristan.

"It will have to wait. Right now, I need to get to a phone."

Ashton stood and left the room. The group followed him from a distance as he went down the stairs. He stopped at the living room phone and pulled open the drawer beneath it. He took out a device and connected it to the receiver then punched some buttons on it to set it properly. He dialed.

"Go secure," he said when someone picked up. "This is Brigadier Ashton on a civilian phone with a Mark Seven device." He waited several seconds.

"We're secure, sir," reported the TOC operator.

"Good. For continuity, dial Ms. Radway, please."

"Wait one, please, sir."

The line went silent. Ashton ignored the chair by the little table and chose to stand as he waited. A minute later, the operator came back on the line.

"We have a secure connection with Ms. Radway, sir."

"Thank you. Put us on speaker for the rest of the TOC to hear and take notes of what we say."

"Roger that, sir. Ready."

"This is Nightmare Six. This is a warning order. I am about to ask Ms. Radway for some information for what may be the location of Charles Steyn and his terrorists.

"Robyn, what was the address of the warehouses to which you sent the surveillance teams several weeks ago, the warehouses which another company bought from under us?"

"One moment, sir." Over the line, Ashton could hear her flipping through her notebook. "Here it is. Units 64-66, Capital Business Centre, Carlton Road, South Croydon."

"Thank you, Robyn. Who is the TOC OIC tonight?"

"Major Joel, sir," came another voice.

"Major, get surveillance on that address right away and get the alert team out there as expeditiously as possible. We believe that may be Steyn's hideout. If it looks like that information is correct, hit it immediately.

"Also, pull up everything you have on the bombmaker, Carlton Pollack. We believe he is assisting Farid and Steyn. If we are correct, you will likely find traces of acetone peroxide at the scene. How copy?"

"Good copy, sir," said Joel. "Will you and the RSM be joining the team?"

Ashton looked across the room, locking eyes with Asami. "No," he said into the receiver. "We will just slow them down. Report to Colonel Harrington and me when the mission is complete."

"Roger that, sir."

"Nightmare Six out." Ashton hung up. He glanced at his watch. "15:00. Now we just have to wait it out."

Asami stood and walked to Ashton, taking him into her arms. "I know that was hard for you, that you wanted to go with them, but thank you for staying with us."

"I couldn't necessarily run off the same day, could I?" he said, a smirk on his face as he pulled back and looked into her eyes.

"No, you couldn't," she replied. She grinned at him. "Besides, it would be a shame if I made you sleep on the couch while we had company, wouldn't it?"

Everyone in the room, even Ashton, laughed.

xxxxxxxxxx

05 July 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Ashton sat on the L-shaped couch, his arms crossed and his chin on his chest. On his right, Johnny leaned against his shoulder, asleep. Tristan had originally been in a similar position to Ashton's left. Over time, though, he had slipped down until his head rested in the man's lap. He was now curled almost in a fetal position, save for one leg draped over the front of the couch. Across the room, Alyssa slept quietly in one of the recliners, its footrest extended. Everyone else had retired to their rooms rather then continue talking or simply waiting.

Ashton woke when the car's lights flashed in the window. He raised his head, the crick in his neck popping, and uncrossed his arms. Other than that, he could not move.

"Boys," he said softly. "I need you to move over." He shifted his limbs slightly to assist their wakening. Johnny groaned and leaned toward the other side of the couch until his head was cushioned by the armrest. He never opened his eyes. Tristan curled into a tighter ball, not making a sound.

Ashton stood and walked to the door. He clicked a button on his watch to illuminate it. 01:37. He opened the door and stepped outside to meet the driver.

There were actually two men, he now saw. Colonel Harrington and a bedraggled Major Joel approached him. Since Ashton was in civilian clothes, they did not render a salute.

"Good morning, sir," said Harrington.

"Hello, Niles. Ken. Come inside?"

"No, thank you, sir," replied Harrington. "We won't be long. We just have news of the warehouse mission."

Ashton nodded. "And?"

"Not a shot fired. Other than three prisoners, a vehicle, and a few explosives and weapons, a total bust. It was almost completely cleaned out. There was evidence of a lot more stuff having been there recently but it's all gone now. We got the tail end of the clean up crew. Naturally, they claim to know nothing."

"No maps or useful documents in the vehicle or the warehouse?" asked Ashton.

"There was a map in the van, but there were no markings on it to denote their destination," said Joel. "Other than that, there was nothing."

"Damn," muttered Ashton, looking up at the stars. Fixing his gaze back on the two officers, he added, "Perhaps we'll get something of use from the prisoners after a time."

"Yes, sir," said Harrington. "We currently have them in holding cells and are keeping them awake until the interrogators arrive. We'll get something from them."

"Any problems with the local LEOs or the media?" Ashton inquired.

"No, sir," answered Joel. "They didn't know we were there until it was pretty much over. We told them it was a military training exercise. We told the MOD the truth, of course."

"Naturally," replied Ashton.

"That's all we have at the moment, sir" said Harrington. "We'll let you know more as it develops."

Ashton offered his hand. "Thank you, gentlemen. Good work. Please pass my compliments on to the men. Now get some rest."

"Yes, sir," replied the colonel. "Have a good night."

Ashton watched the car drive off before going inside, using the time to think. When the tail lights were no longer visible, he opened the door. He walked over to Alyssa's chair and gently shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes slowly, looking up at him.

"Did they come?" she asked, covering a yawn with her palm.

"Yes."

"What did they say?"

"I'll tell you in the morning. It's time for bed now."

She nodded. It was an acceptable rebuff given the hour She reached down beside the chair and lowered the footrest.

"Yours or mine," she asked, still in a sleepy voice.

"Go to yours, silly girl," he replied with a chuckle. "I'll wake the boys."

She nodded again and walked toward the staircase.

"Good night, David."

Ashton shook Tristan's shoulder and Johnny's ankle, whispering to each of them that it was time to go to their own beds. The boys opened weary eyes, responding automatically to his words. He watched them meander slowly toward the staircase, at one point bumping into each other and putting an arm around each other for support, and grinned at the sight. Once they were in their rooms, he walked into his office and sat at his desk. Lighting a cigar, he sat back, crossed his ankles, and stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought and puffing on his cigar.


	27. Take Up the Strain

"And you, to whom adversity has dealt the final blow  
With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go  
Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain  
And like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again"

"The Mary Ellen Carter" - Stan Rogers

05 July 2004

Hereford, England

"My goodness, Tristan, you're really getting good at this. If you cut another minute off this time, I'm going to have to have to have you start competing on the local athletics team."

Johnny and Tristan walked around the school track as Tristan caught his breath after having just finished the eight-hundred meter run, the last segment of his daily workout. He put hands behind his head as he walked.

"You were timing me?" Trisan asked through his gasps.

"I always have," replied Johnny. "I've kept a journal of everything since you started. It's the only way to know for sure that you're making progress."

"And how was today?"

"Remember the first time you ran this track, the four hundred meter?"

"That took you just under three minutes, two fifty-three. Today, after a month of training, you did double that in three fifty-one."

"And what was that about some local team?" Tristan asked, lowering his arms to walk normally.

"An athletics team. You'd call it track-and-field in the States. Last autumn, the teams here on the base for the eleven and twelve year olds posted times between two fifty-six and three twenty-three. See? Cut one more minute and you'll beat all of them."

Tristan looked up at Johnny as they walked. "Have you run competitively before?

"Yeah, it's really fun. I really have to push myself against the other kids because I'm usually shorter than most of them. My normal time for an eight hundred meter is right at two minutes. On really good days, I can cut five or ten seconds off that.

"I can't compete on post, though. It's hard enough living here without people noticing that I'm not aging. If I were to start running in athletics competitions, it would be impossible. If I were to do it again, I'd have to go far away, either another city or even another country."

"So that stuff about having me compete was just a joke?"

"It doesn't have to be, not for the first year or so, at least. You would have to move on after that, though."

"Yeah," Tristan muttered, staring at his feet. "I'm perfectly familiar with that."

"That's the beautiful thing about living with David, though," said Johnny consoling. "He only allows people to see us who he knows can be trusted not to blab about us not growing. That or they're not around long enough to notice, like some of the soldiers."

"He didn't always have this thing with the soldiers, though. How did you guys handle things before that?"

"Have you noticed how he runs his other companies?"

"Not really."

"Exactly. For the most part, he is the invisible CEO for a lot of them. He does a lot of things by email. He loves the technological age because of that capability. He was one of the first people to start using electronic mail and other digital resources because of the flexibility it gave him. He only occasionally shows his face in actual meetings."

"Like when I first met him in London," Tristan said.

"Right," acknowledged Johnny. "He couldn't avoid that meeting. It required a face-to-face so he went to it. Whenever possible, he doesn't show himself unless he must. That keeps him safe and his family - us - safe."

"Just how private can multi-billionaires be, though?" Tristan wondered.

"Admittedly more so than he is," Johnny allowed. "The nature of his businesses requires that he maintains - or initiates - relationships with certain people. When he has no choice or can't do it through a proxy, he does it himself. He still has his and our safety in mind at all times, though."

"It's still a hard life," Tristan declared.

"Of course, it is," said Johnny as they began to walk toward home. "The Immortal life always is, but you can adjust to make it easier. It doesn't have to be a life of total misery all the time.

"I've been through a share of suffering, maybe more or less than some Immortals. I'd rather not compare notes. I didn't spend long with your friend, Penance, but I could tell that he'd had more than his fair share of misfortune during his life. I wish he could have also had the benefit of coming here with you. There's love and even - God forbid - happiness out there, if you just have the courage to seek it and, when it's right in front of you, reach out and grasp it."

xxxxxxxxxx

06 July 2004

Barrow, England

"I didn't expect you back so soon, Aadam," declared Steyn matter of factly. He lifted his glass of bourbon in salute to his friend's return and downed it in one gulp.

Farid grinned through the dust on this face. To his surprise, he was glad to see the South African again.

"I will take your salutation in the manner in which it was intended, Charles. Thank you. I did not expect to be back so quickly myself after the recent difficulties. Sadly, only these three men survived to accompany me. We ran into problems with the Pakistani army." Farid turned to the men and spoke in Arabic, telling them to make themselves comfortable.

Steyn watched the men from his seat at the kitchen table. He poured another glass of bourbon before saying anything. "The fact that any of you are here at all after only a week is incredible in itself," he said. He motioned to the empty chairs at the table. "Have a seat. You've earned it. I'd offer you a drink but I know you'd refuse. Let me fix you a cup of tea."

Farid grinned as Steyn stood to prepare the tea, taking his snifter of bourbon with him. The uncharacteristic generosity was rare for Steyn but, when it happened, it was genuine. Farid sat, resting an arm on the table.

"Thank you, my friend. Were you to have offered your firewater soon after the firefight a week ago, I may have succumbed to weakness and accepted it."

"A firefight? All I saw was your email and Carlton and I reacted to that. What happened? Carl, come in here. You'll want to hear this."

A moment later, Pollack entered the kitchen, curiosity on his face.

"What's going on?" he asked. "What are you doing back so soon?"

"I had a brief encounter with Charles' friend, David Ashton, and his men," said Farid.

"Ashton?" repeated Pollack. "You're lucky you came away with your head, then."

"You know him?" asked Farid.

"I met him back when I worked with the Mob in the nineteen twenties. He's the only person I ever saw who stood up to Capone and won. Al ordered a hit on him once, not knowing he was Immortal, of course. He went through the hit team like a buzzsaw, killed every one of them."

"Buzzsaw," said Farid. "Yes, that is an appropriate term."

Steyn set a mug of tea on the table in front of Farid to steep. "What happened, Aadam?" he asked as he sat again, sipping from his snifter.

"Rafa and Asfand Dhanial were remarkably successful in recruiting men for us. They had over five hundred armed volunteers ready for us. I was actually ready to send a message saying you needed to send more documents to get all of them into the country. However, there was an informer in the village who sent word by way of a hidden radio to the British. He must have done it several days or even a week before in order for there to have been enough time for them to have arrived, but no matter. The important thing is Ashton and his men arrived and attacked us. They cut through my men, to use Carl's term, like a buzzsaw."

"You saw him?" asked Steyn.

"No, not face-to-face, but everything I have heard about the man, the way he and his men fight, fit what I saw that day. The Americans don't have that kind of heart. They would have retreated in the face of that kind of pressure. He kept fighting. In eighteen hours, I was down to only about one hundred seventy men and Rafa and Asfand were dead. We had to flee. The only consolation was we found the treacherous informant and his wife and left them without their heads in the village square.

"We were only about five kilometers from the Pakistani border. It did not take us long to get across. Unfortunately, most of the men who had stayed behind to cover our escape had perished when Ashton's men swept through the village. Only fifty-eight men crossed the border with me.

"We pressed south heading for India. At one point, we encountered a sizeable army patrol, about two hundred men, as we were moving through the mountains. We attempted to evade them but they opened fire on us immediately. We fought them for about two hours. By then, most of the men were dead and we were searching corpses for ammunition. Seven of us escaped, leaving the wounded to their fate, Allah forgive us.

"I am fairly certain we crossed into India that night. When we awoke the next morning, two men had abandoned us and one had died of his wounds, leaving only the three you see sitting in there and myself. We buried our comrade and moved on.

"I still had several passport blanks in my pack as well as a great deal of money. We paid a man to affix photos to the blanks and make the necessary modifications to them to make them appear legitimate. We then purchased plane tickets to the Netherlands and flew to The Hague. From there, we chartered a private boat to Botany Bay. The owner of the vessel was quite willing to accept cash in exchange for confidentiality. We then took the train up here and a taxi the rest of the way. It has been a long journey, my friend.

Farid stopped and sipped his tea. He let out a long "Ah," of satisfaction.

"I have not had decent tea in weeks," he added. "This is excellent. Thank you."

Steyn nodded in response, a minute smile on his lips. Farid looks across at Pollack.

"And what of you, Carl? How does your new location suit you?"

Pollack leaned back in his seat and crossed his ankles. He gestured toward the windows.

"Counting this house," he said, "there are three buildings on this farm ground. The largest of them is a suitable storage building while the other is a good work area for me and a storage area for my components. This house, given that our other three laborers never returned last night and are presumed captured, is just large enough for the six of us and perhaps two more. After a while we'll need more storage and, if we are to house any more men, a place for them. That will need to be built."

Farid grinned. "We have three men who have nothing to do for quite a while. Constructing a few buildings will be a good project for them." He glanced at Steyn. "Have you any knowledge of construction yourself, Charles?"

"A degree in architecture from the University of Pretoria. It's a bit dated, though, from 1959."

Farid chuckled. "That should be more than sufficient for our simple needs. At least we will have a competent foreman on site."

"You can take on some of the other logistics tasks, then. This will have my hands full for a while." Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, Steyn took a long look at the men lounging in the living room. "Do they speak Pashtun or Arabic?" he asked. "My Pashtun is shit."

"They're all fluent in Arabic."

"Good," Steyn said, leaning back. "Two more men would be useful, at least one should be a smart guy that speaks English like a native. I'll need him as a runner to get supplies for the buildings and food for all of us as well as take care of our trash. The other would be a cook."

"That won't be a problem," replied Farid. "There is always local talent eager to assist." He took another sip of tea and looked at Pollack again.

"Now, Carl, do take a moment and tell me everything you know about this man, David Ashton."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 July 2004

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

Alan Weatheral scrolled through the report on his computer screen, frowning as he read. His brow furrowed. He tapped the arrow keys more insistently, finally letting out a grunt of frustration.

"What is it, Sergeant Major?" asked Jack.

"The interrogators have still gotten nowhere with the prisoners," Weatheral spat, pointing at the screen angrily. "It's been four days now and they haven't got a peep out of them yet."

"Religious zealots can be tough to crack," said Jack.

"That's true," admitted Weatheral, "but even given that, these guys usually have been able to get something by now."

"How are they going about the interrogation?"

"Completely ethical techniques by our standards. Certainly nothing like what our enemies would use, no bamboo shoots under the nails or anything like that."

"When I was in the 82nd Airborne Division, I went through the Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape Course." Jack leaned back in his seat as he spoke. "At the end of it, we were all captured and put through an interrogation phase with some pretty rough treatment, sleep deprivation, waterboarding, things like that, to see if we'd break under the pressure. Eventually, all of us did. That was the biggest lesson we learned. Everyone breaks at some point. So will these guys. It's a question of time."

"The biggest question, Jack, is do we have that time?"

"I can't answer that, Sergeant Major. It's one of the great moral dilemmas of interrogation. Do you let your ethics guide you or do you sacrifice them in the name of an emergency and risk getting bad information?"

11 July 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Tristan sat on his knees on the living room floor. On either side of him danced a tiny adversary, Marc and Balach, playful grins on their faces. Tristan leaned from one side to the other, making light-hearted attempts to grab one or the other child. They would hop back, laughing at his failure, while the other would try to tackle him. Tristan would then lunge for the other boy and the cycle would reverse. Finally, as if synching their thoughts, Marc and Balach looked at each other, nodded, and rushed Tristan simultaneously, a victorious roar erupting from their throats as they crashed into him and brought him to the floor.

On the L-shaped couch, Matt and Lily Woodham along with Alyssa laughed along with the boys. Tristan, for his part, was trying to use a combination of tickling and wrestling to free himself from the squirming little bodies and pin them to the floor.

Lily, her arm around Alyssa's shoulder, pulled her closer and said, "Don't they look like a bunch of little playful puppies down there?" Matt chuckled at the comment.

Alyssa laughed aloud. "They sure do. Maybe we should put down some newspaper."

"Oh, I certainly hope they're housebroken by now," said Matt.

On the floor, Marc, who had only overheard the word "puppies," began to yip in a high-pitched tone as he continued to struggle with Tristan.

Balach paused in his wrestling. Tristan did, as well. "What is that noise?" asked Balach.

Marc pointed at Alyssa, a smile on his lips. "She said we look like puppies playing. I was barking like one."

Grinning with understanding, Balach pounced on Tristan again, this time with his own version of a puppy's bark. Marc leapt back into the fray, also. On the couch, the Woodhams looked to Alyssa for a translation of the Arabic they had just heard. They chuckled again.

"It's like they're already brothers," said Matt.

"They might as well be," replied Alyssa. "Kids don't care about races or borders. Play is the universal language. If you'll play with them, they love you. It's that simple."

"Uh oh, Tristan's getting the upper hand," said Matt.

Tristan had managed to extricate himself from the two boys' pin. He now had them on their backs as he knelt between them. Using one hand per child, he tickled their stocmachs and ribs. The laughter it elicited was louder than the barking. The boys squirmed and kicked in an attempt to escape but Tristan would always pull them back and continue the tickling.

Tristan grinned in triumph. He slipped his fingers under an armpit here, across ribs there, enjoying the sound of the boys' laughter. His own mixed in with theirs. Even their playful slaps and twists of evasion were entertaining. What he did not expect as part of the game, though, was the crashing blow to his back which sent him pitching forward. He threw his hands out in front of him to prevent hitting his face on the carpet. A girlish laugh rang in his ears as a small body rolled off his back.

"Come to reinforce your brother, huh, Tally?" he said, rolling over to face her.

"It looked like fun," said the grinning girl, "so why not?" The three children then rushed Tristan at once.

"Help," Tristan yelped as he was overrun by three puppies. He now had children crawling all over him, practically covering his body. "I can barely breathe here, guys," he said, still getting in a tickle or two.

Laughing again, Lily asked, "Should we get the hose and spray them down?"

Alyssa shook her head, but still grinned. "Then we'd have four wet dogs walking around and dripping on the floor."

"Hey," called Tristan, "No comments from the peanut gallery…unless you're gonna help."

"Would you prefer I throw you in the pool or use tranquilizer darts," asked Alyssa.

"Just getting down here and pulling one or two of these squirming misfits off me would be fine," he responded, pushing a giggling Tally off his face only to have her jump on him again.

"The pool sounds fun," said Marc, sitting back on his knees. "Let's go play there." Balach looked at him with curiosity. Marc repeated his suggestion in Arabic. Balach's face fell as he muttered a response.

"Oh," said Tally, rolling off of Tristan.

"What did he say?" asked Lily.

Alyssa responded to her question. "He said he can't swim. He's never even seen a swimming pool before."

"Well," said Tristan. "Let's fix that."

Word spread quickly throughout the house. Within twenty minutes, everyone had gathered at the pool to support Balach in his first swimming lesson. All of the adults entered the water immediately while the children waited for their friend. Balach stood at the pool's steps, eyeing the massive expanse of the pool with awe.

"Oh, my," said Beth, Ashton at her side. "I didn't realize how truly tiny Balach was until now. Seeing him in swim trunks and standing next to Marc makes it apparent, though. He's barely taller than Marc. How old is he again?"

"Nine," replied Ashton. "No, ten," he corrected himself. "Today is his birthday."

"It is?" responded Beth. "Then why are we playing in the pool and not having a party for him?"

"Afghans don't have birthday parties. It's not part of their culture," answered Ashton. "It would be very odd for him right now if we did such a thing. Besides, I would like to think that when he remembers this swimming lesson in years to come that it is like a party to him. Let's treat it like one. Celebrate every new thing he learns."

"We can certainly do that," said John from Lily's other side.

Over at the steps, with the patient coaxing of his friends, Balach took his first tentative steps into the water. He stood with the water at his ankles, peering at the liquid as if concerned it might carry him off. A moment later, he stepped further down until the water reached his knees. Marc and Tally waded ahead of him and spoke encouragingly. Balach took two more steps. The water was now at his waist. He was still on the steps and would move no further. Even the enticing words of the smaller children would not budge him.

"Okay," said Ashton, moving toward the boy. "This is a good place to start."

xxxxxxxxxx

18 July 2004

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

The early evening air was cool, at least for the Americans. Sixteen degrees Celsius (61°F) was comfortable for a British resident but not so much for a person from the southern states of the U.S. As a result, the Woodhams, Boatwrights, and Tristan sat out on Ashton's back deck wearing long pants and either sweaters or light jackets. Balach was dressed similarly. The others present, including Sather, wore much lighter attire or even short sleeves.

Tables and chairs were set for them all. John Boatwright and Matt Woodham manned the grills per their insistence. Steaks, hamburger patties, and hotdogs sizzled loudly next to various vegetables. Both of the retired soldiers seemed to be in their element. Around them, friends and family of Ashton sat and talked while the smaller children ran about and played in the backyard.

"Has it really been three weeks already?" asked Asami, taking a sip from her bottle of beer. "It's been such fun having all of you here. I wish you could stay longer."

"I do, too," said Lily, "but our grandkids are coming to visit from Minnesota in a few days. We don't want to miss them."

"Oh, we certainly don't want to keep you from that," Asami replied, "but do please come back again. You are all more than welcome."

"We must," said Lily, pointing toward the yard. "Those kids out there have practically become our second set of grandchildren. It's going to be hard to leave them."

Asami grinned. "They're going to hate to see you go, too."

Ashton chuckled. "Especially Tally. She's formed quite an attachment to you."

"Oh, she's an absolute dear," said Lily. "I wish I could take her with me."

Ashton smiled. "You'd never separate her from Marc. They're a pair. You'd have to take them both."

"I'm okay with that," replied Lily with a grin.

"Hey," said Matt. "Don't go committing us to things so quickly. We need to prepare first."

"Oh, don't pretend like you wouldn't love having them around for a week or two, Matt," Lily retorted.

Matt didn't reply. He only grinned at her before turning back to the grill.

"That grin means yes," said Lily.

"We'll have to work it out, then," said Asami with a laugh.

Ashton set down his glass of Scotch and look about, his eyes narrowing.

"What is it, David?" Asami asked.

"Someone's here," Johnny answered for him.

"Several someones," said Alyssa.

They relaxed seconds later as Vivia Wales came into view. Two other familiar faces followed her. One was a pretty light-skinned black girl and the other was a young man with an ever-present smile. Johnny stood as they approached.

"Vivia!" exclaimed Ashton. "I was hoping you would show up."

"I can only hold a grudge for so long before it becomes tiresome," she said. "Besides, I've heard you talk about how well these two can work a grill so I figured I had to experience it for myself."

"And you brought Jennifer and Eric with you," observed Johnny. "Awesome!" He jumped down the steps of the deck to deliver hugs to his three friends. Jennifer Ellis and Eric Doyle, despite being familiar with the typical Fairbanks greeting, could not resist a chuckle as he embraced them. Alyssa came down the stairs and greeted them in a similar manner just with a little less hyperactivity.

Vivia walked up to Sather and held out her hand. "This is for you," she said. Sather held his hand under hers. A key fell into his palm.

"It's time to come home, Devon. There's no one to curl up with at night and I don't want to get a dog right now."

Sather looked into her eyes and nodded. "Thank you, Viv," he said quietly.

"Oh, David," interjected John as he added more food to the grill. "I have to ask you one work question before I forget and then it's too late. What happened with those prisoners you took? Have you been able to break this plot yet?"

Ashton turned serious. Picking up his Scotch again, he sipped from it and sighed. He scanned the eyes of all of friends before answering.

"No, not yet. The prisoners are proving very difficult to break. What we have managed to do, if we're lucky, is slow them down, I think. However, we still have no idea what they're planning to do after the bus attacks or where they're planning to do it. We still have a lot we need to learn before we will be able to stop them completely."

"Well, here's hoping you are able to learn that quickly," said Matt, raising his beer bottle.

Ashton lifted his glass in response. "Thank you, Matt." They drank.

"And now I'm going to throw something at you that might make you want more of that Scotch," said Vivia. "Asami, too."

Ashton and Asami looked into each others eyes. Asami took Ashton's hand and pulled him down to sit next to her. Vivia smiled and leaned on the handrail of the deck's stairs.

"It's good that you have him sitting, Asami, 'cause I think he'd explode otherwise." She smiled again.

"I'm not sure whether to be comforted or concerned, Vivia. What is it?" Asami asked her friend.

Vivia turned her gaze to the yard for several moments, watching the carefree antics of the children. She then looked back at the adults on the deck.

"I want to wander Asia again but this time I want to take the kids with me. The little ones. Marc, Tally, and even Balach. It would be for a few months, six to eight, maybe nine."

Ashton noticeably tensed but he kept his seat. "Go on," he said.

"We'd start in the area where I was born, Kyrgyzstan, and travel east until we got to the Pacific. From there, we would fly to South Korea and Japan and then to Scotland and drive back down to here, the scenic way.

"Now, before you go worrying about how someone who looks like me, a Kyrgyz / Persian-type woman, is going to wander Asia with two superblond children and an Afghan boy without being accused of trafficking - or having them stolen by traffickers - that is why I am also taking these two with me as security…and occasional babysitters." She gestured toward Jennifer and Eric. "And Devon has to go, too, of course."

"If I agree to this," said Ashton, "I would naturally insist on all of those things."

"And regular video callbacks, as well," Asami added.

"Of course," agreed Vivia. "If the conditions in that part of the world will allow it."

Ashton sat back in his seat and crossed his legs. He took a large pull from his Scotch glass and swished it around in his mouth as he thought. He closed his eyes and swallowed half of it. When he swallowed the other half, he opened his eyes. He looked at Asami first.

"I do believe highly in experiential learning, as you know. This would be a great opportunity for all three of them to learn about other cultures."

Asami thought about that statement silently and then slowly nodded in agreement. Ashton continued.

"As far as safety goes, I trust these four to do whatever it takes to keep the children from whatever perils may exist during the journey…or to call me for help which I doubt they would require.

"I also think this would be a fine way for Balach to bond with Marc and Tally as well as learn English. Who knows what else they'll all pick up along the way?

"I want your input on this, too, though. What do you have to say?"

Asami sat quietly for several moments, her eyes focused on the children in the yard. When she faced Ashton and Vivia again, her eyes were misty, but she was smiling.

"Six to nine months is a long time," she said, "but I think you're right. This is a great opportunity for them to experience a once-in-a-lifetime journey and to learn from it. Vivia is my friend and I would trust her with anything. I agree."

"On one condition," said Ashton, turning to Vivia. "Matt and Lily have already laid claim to Marc and Tally for a week or two in the near future. Your trip doesn't begin until they come back from America."

"You may as well send Balach, too," Matt proposed. "Seeing how they're getting along now, he'd be miserable with them gone."

"Consider it done," agreed Ashton. "Just get back to me on when to send them to you and we'll work out the details."

"Enough talk now," declared John. "It's time to eat."

"That means we should go then," announced Jennifer, putting an arm around Eric and starting to turn.

"Nonsense," countered Matt. "There's plenty for everyone."

"Yes," agreed Ashton. "You're part of the family, too. Please join us."

"Well, if you insist," replied Eric with his usual smile.

xxxxxxxxxx

The evening twilight had a pleasant, calming effect on the dinner party. The paper plates on the table contained scattered remnants of uneaten food. Those who had eaten it still sat at the table, though in a much more relaxed pose, many of the adults nursing alcoholic beverages.

The smaller children had opted for the more comfortable seating of laps. Since this would be their last evening together, Tally had chosen to be with Lily. Marc alternated between John and Beth. Tristan sat with Matt while Balach took turns with Ashton and Asami.

"Did we tell you Balach's nickname yet?" Tally asked the table, a huge grin on her face.

"No," asked Vivia. "What are you calling him?"

"Oh, you missed it," chided the girl lightly. "Last week he had his first swimming lesson in the pool. At first, he was really scared but after a while he started to have a lot of fun. He wanted to go back to the pool the next day and the next. We went every day. So yesterday we asked him what the Pashtun word for fish was. It's _keb_. That's what we call him now."

Tally grinned in Balach's direction as she finished the story. Balach smiled and giggled while trying to hide behind Asami's arms.

As the laughter worked its way around the table, Tristan leaned his head back against Matt Woodham's shoulder. He spoke softly into the man's ear.

"I never thanked you properly for everything you taught me, Matt. I don't even know how I can do it. I know it's hard to believe, but what you showed me how to do saved my life shortly after I left your house. It was also your advice about finding another teacher which eventually brought me here. How can I thank you for that?"

Matt Woodham put his arms around the boy and squeezed. "You already have," he whispered. "I got to see you again. You've also given me the best gift an old man can have. You've reunited him with his friends. Whatever debt you think you owe, consider it paid."

At the head of the table, Ashton smirked as he said, "What's all that whispering over there?"

Matt looked down the table at Ashton and announced for all to hear, "I was just telling Tristan about the value of old friends."

"Well," affirmed Ashton, "I can't agree more." He looked about and shrugged. "A bit of an informal setting for it, but what the hell?" He stood and lifted his Scotch glass.

"A toast," he called, "to good friends, old and new."

END OF ACT II


	28. The Boys From the South

ACT III

ENGLAND, 2005

Author's Note: I've changed the unit designations of the units involved in this story only slightly. Anyone who was involved with them or does even the slightest research will learn what they really were. I have changed them only for literary purposes. It is not intended as any sort of slight against those soldiers who served in those units.

Also, I hope Russel Honore - assuming he were ever to learn about it in the first place - does not mind my use of his name in this story. He did visit a Georgia National Guard unit at the National Training Center in 2005 and present a coin to a young operations assistant who was having a bad day. I thought it would be a good thing to include here. He and some of the people in the Chicago flashbacks are the only people identified by real names in this entire story, by the way.

The Malayan Emergency, which Lieutenant Colonel John Rey mentions in this chapter, was an insurgency which took place from 1948 to 1960. In _Learning to Eat Soup With a Knife,: Counterinsurgency Lessons from Malaya and Vietnam,_ John A. Nagl examines the similarities and differences between the British and American responses to counterinsurgency, the British in Malaya and the Americans in Vietnam. The tactics, techniques, and procedures implemented by the two countries during those conflicts had radically different effects on the outcomes of the wars. The Malayan insurgency lost all support and was defeated; the Vietnamese insurgency, on the other hand, was not. It is these differences which Rey references and, in the real life version of him, implemented in his small-scale version of counterinsurgency in Mahmudiyah.

Lastly, an ISOPREP form is an Isolated Personnel Report. It is a document that is completed for all military and civilian personnel who are at risk of becoming prisoners of war or missing in action. It contains information that assists recovery teams in finding these missing personnel. An example of the diligence of the U.S. attempts to recover lost personnel is the story of Staff Sergeant Keith Matt Maupin, who was captured by Iraqi insurgents in April 2004. U.S. forces continued to search for SSG Maupin until his remains were discovered in March 2008.

"Cause if you know these streets, then these streets know you  
When it's time to handle business, then you know what to do  
Me and my crew, we stay true, old school or new  
Many were called, but the chosen are few  
We rise to the top, what you want? Just in case you forgot  
Rush the stage, grab my mic, show me what you got"

"Boom" - POD

05 May 2005

The Mojave Desert

U.S. Army National Training Center, California

Specialist Daniel Morgan sat in front of his laptop sipping water from his Camelbak. It did nothing to cool his anger at his section sergeant but it slaked his thirst somewhat. He tapped a finger with deliberate lightness on the keyboard. He was avoiding anything remotely like what he wanted to do which was tear off the body armor he was wearing - which wasn't helping with his thirst in this desert - throw it across the tent in which his section was working into his sergeant's face, and call him an antiquated, knuckle-dragging asshole. He knew that doing such a thing would only make his situation worse, of course, which was why he wasn't doing it, but, damn, it would feel good.

Half an hour earlier, Morgan had thought he was about to make a nice little technological breakthrough for everyone involved in the section, bring them into the twenty-first century, so to speak. A full-timer in the Georgia National Guard since 1999, Morgan liked to refer to himself as a lazy workaholic. He was willing to put in a lot of extra time now if it meant he could do significantly less work later. Since, in the past six years, he had often been responsible for the personnel, pay, and reenlistment actions for well over one hundred soldiers, he had plenty of opportunity to make use of that personality trait. He had developed a database in Microsoft Access which automated the vast majority of the work he did, essentially turning him into a one-man personnel section. He just had to make sure all the data inside the database was correct and everything was golden.

Thirty minutes ago, Sergeant First Class Clarence Borne, the personnel services NCO for the battalion, had given Morgan a handwritten list of fifteen privates and told him to prepare promotion actions to the next pay grade for them. Morgan had responded with a simple, "Can do," and set to work with his database. Pulling up each soldier's name, he changed their current pay grade and date of grade, checked a box, and moved on to the next soldier. He was finished with the list in under five minutes.

He then clicked another button with his mouse. This button activated a script which saved all the changes, closed the current screen, and opened a report formatted to look exactly like the form used for promotion actions. Scripts within the report automatically selected which section of army regulation applied to the promotion based on the soldier's former pay grade. Clicking the print button, fifteen perfectly formatted and individually unique promotion forms began to spit out of the section's printer, ready for the relevant company commander's signature. Morgan stood, collected the printouts, put the list on top, and placed them next to Sergeant Borne's laptop.

"Finished, Sergeant" Morgan said simply and returned to his seat.

Borne scowled at the printouts. He picked them up and examined them closely. Morgan glanced quickly around the tent. The smiles he saw on the faces of the other specialists, Nadia Tanner and Jarrett Nelson, told him they expected the same as he. At twenty-nine, Morgan was ten years their senior in age and more than that in experience. Morgan had the nickname among the others in the section - unknown to Borne, of course - of "The Personnel God" for his skills. He was also the unofficial leader of the section. Even the personnel officer often came to him for advice, much to the chagrin of Sergeant Borne.

"How did you finish these so quickly, Morgan?" asked Borne.

"Let me show you," offered Morgan. "This is something I've been developing for several years. I used it when I was working retention at the 1-212th infantry battalion and when I was working as the personnelist for the HHC and Alpha Company detachments back in Douglasville. It was a great help in getting the work done quickly, to standard, and keeping track of it all. Since we mobilized back in December, I've added the whole battalion to it and kept it updated the entire time. It can automate most of what we do now and, with upgrades, what we do in theater, too. I'll demonstrate for you."

Morgan reset one of the people he had just promoted and ran through it all again, showing Borne how simply it could be done.

"Scripts within the database analyze the pay grade and automatically select the appropriate section of regulation to print on the form. We don't have to look it up. Also, if you look here," Morgan pointed at color-coded sections on the screen, "it tells us if the soldier meets the time in grade and time in service requirements for promotion. If he doesn't and doesn't qualify for an override, he won't show up in the final report and won't be in the printouts when they're generated. The scripts also look up the company commander's name and puts it in the signature block. If we update the commander later, future forms will show the correct commander.

"That's just one action this database can perform. It can also be used to track NCO evaluations, line-of-duty investigations, create extension documents and bonus contracts, and track the status of enlisted promotion system packets, as well as other things. I think this would be a great tool for the entire section to use. It would greatly enhance our work performance and output."

Morgan had stood during his brief presentation in order to allow Borne to get closer to the screen. He took a step back as he finished and waited for the sergeant to respond. Borne nodded slowly, his lower lip protruding outward briefly before resuming its normal place. He turned his head to face Morgan. Being a head shorter than Morgan, he had to look up.

"I don't want you to use this anymore. You're to use the same things everyone else in the section uses."

Morgan's jaw dropped as his eyes widened. He pointed at the manning rosters and regulations laid out on the tables in front of them.

"If I used those rosters and regs and the forms software installed on that laptop to do the task you gave me, it would take me the rest of the day. I might even still be working on it tomorrow."

"Then it takes you all day," declared Borne, acid in his voice.

"That's ludicrous," retorted Morgan.

Borne reached out and seized the front of Morgan's uniform tunic. Morgan tensed instantly. His right hand, which had been slightly behind his back already, curled into a fist. Other than that, he forced his body not to respond the way it wanted…unless the sergeant showed more aggression first.

"Come with me," ordered Borne, moving to the tent's doorway and jerking Morgan along with him. Morgan allowed the man to pull him.

 _Go ahead, you little shit,_ thought Morgan. _Abuse a subordinate in front of everyone._

Borne dragged Morgan outside, leaving their Kevlar helmets and weapons in the tent, and released him. He stared daggers at the younger soldier. Years of antagonism between the two of them were coming to a head now. Borne pointed back at the tent.

"Who gave you permission to make that?"

"No one," replied Morgan, going to a grudging but proper position of parade rest. "I made it on my own."

"Why?"

"To track what I was doing and to get work done faster. I thought it was a good idea to spend two hours on building an automated form if it could save fifty hours of work in the future."

"You thought? You're a specialist. You don't think. You do what I tell you to do. Period."

"Sergeant Borne," contended Morgan, "we are both full-timers in the Georgia National Guard. You know full well we have to take initiative in order to accomplish our missions. My mission before we mobilized was to initiate and track the status of personnel actions for two separate units simultaneously. I took an existing tool which I had developed to help me in a previous position and adapted it for that purpose. It has served me well in that regard. It has also helped me with a myriad of other tasks."

"Stop using that goddamned college language of yours and talk like a normal fucking human, you son of a bitch." Borne's face was bright red.

"All I am saying is rosters and regs are a good backup but if there is a faster and more efficient way to do the job then we should use that method. That is all, Sergeant."

Borne glared into Morgan's eyes. Morgan kept his expression neutral. Throughout their dialogue, his tone had been neutral, as well. This was his normal way of dealing with people he did not like; he dropped all expression from his voice and face, he went total robot. It wasn't happy, sad, respectful, or disrespectful in tone; it just was. The fact that he was standing at parade rest and only moved his dark blue eyes to maintain contact with those of Sergeant Borne emphasized the act.

Borne reached up, his hand cuffing one of Morgan's lapels, indicating the rank insignia pinned on it.

"You're going to be an E3 by the end of the day," he growled. "Get back to work and shut your fucking mouth."

Morgan followed him back into the tent, his face still neutral. The expressions on his peers were not, however. Nelson and Tanner's faces showed the shock he felt. They had heard it all. How could they not? It was just a tent after all. "The Personnel God" had had the perfect moment to demonstrate and give his powers to all of them. Instead, he had been crushed by the personnel services NCO with a Napoleon complex. And now he was about to lose a pay grade to boot.

The others in the tent had different reactions. Corporal Shed, a new additional from the cavalry troop, was indifferent and stared at his screen, his jaw slack. Staff Sergeant Jon Janus, the personnel sergeant for Headquarters Company, looked at Morgan with a mixture of bewilderment and sadness. He was Morgan's supervisor, but he said nothing.

So now Specialist - soon to be Private First Class - Daniel Morgan sat at his laptop wondering how the hell he was going to endure the next year. Fifteen days from now, he knew, he was going to be stepping off the plane into the Middle East. Was he really going to have to spend a year hand-jamming in thirty minutes simple things that he knew he could otherwise do in thirty seconds?

 _Man, as if deploying to Iraq doesn't already suck enough already, now I have to add tedium to the mix._

The open doorway to the tent darkened briefly as someone entered. Morgan glanced in that direction. It was Major Joseph Trenton, the newly established battalion executive officer. The previous XO had been fired a few days previously and Major Trenton had transferred in from one of the infantry battalions to take his place. As was typical with many people in the Georgia National Guard, Morgan and Trenton knew each other. They actually had a decade of history working together.

Major Trenton smiled at Morgan as he entered the tent. Morgan nodded but did not smile back. He turned back to his computer. Trenton looked around the tent silently. Finally, he approached Morgan and tapped his shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Dan, can I talk to you outside for a moment?" he asked. National Guardsmen tended to be more informal with each other, especially superior to subordinate, than the Regular Army.

"Yes, sir," replied Morgan, picking up his Kevlar helmet and M16. He followed the officer out of the tent.

Trenton walked a good twenty meters from the tent before stopping. He then turned to face Morgan, concern on his features.

"How are you, Dan?" he queried, his voice barely above a whisper.

Morgan, M16 over his shoulder, clipped his helmet in place and looked the man squarely in the eyes. He went to the position of attention. "Do you want the lie or the truth, sir?"

"The truth, always," Trenton answered, motioning for him to stand at ease.

"I'm pissed off, sir." His voice was just as low as the major's, but there was definite strength behind the four words.

"I figured as much," said Trenton, "because I know Dan Morgan very well and what I saw in there is not the Dan Morgan I've come to know after all these years." What happened?"

Morgan looked at the tent, half expecting to see Borne staring at them. He didn't. He looked back at Major Trenton.

"I…" he stopped, the emotion of the last hour flooding into his voice.

"It's okay," prompted Trenton.

Keeping his voice low, Morgan continued, "I tried to demonstrate a database I use in the hopes that the whole section could then use it and be better for it, get our work done faster and to standard, and that man," he pointed at the tent, "Sergeant Borne, completely shut me down, said I can't use it anymore, have to use slow, time-wasting methods to do my work, and has threatened to reduce me to PFC.

"You've seen the kinds of tools I make, sir. They're designed to save time and get things done more efficiently."

"Yeah," confirmed Trenton. "They're great. They still use the stuff you made while you were in First Foot." First Foot was the nickname the brigade had for the First Battalion, 212nd Infantry Battalion to differentiate it from its sister battalion in the state, Second Battalion, 212nd Infantry.

"Pardon my outburst, please, sir, but that's why I'm so angry."

"I see," said Trenton, eyeing the tent. After a moment, he looked back at Morgan. "Well, what if I were to take you away from all that?"

Morgan looked at him with curiosity. "How so, sir?"

"Well, it just so happens that I need an operations assistant in the TOC and you have TOC experience."

Morgan grinned slightly. "Yes, I do."

"Do you have anything in that tent?"

"Just my patrol pack and the computer."

"Go grab them and come back."

Morgan walked back to the tent, making a great effort not to trot with glee. He entered as if everything were completely normal, closed his laptop, gathered the peripherals, stowed them in his pack, and walked out without saying a word. Borne watched him but said nothing. Morgan went back to Major Trenton.

"Alright, Dan. Go into the TOC and report to Sergeant First Class Lang or Sergeant First Class Reed. They'll put you to work. You don't have to worry about Borne or his threats. You'll keep your rank. I'll take care of the rest."

"Thank you, sir," said Morgan with another, fuller, grin. "You've made my day."

"Thank you," replied Trenton. "I was wondering where the hell I was going to find an experienced guy to fill that slot. I didn't want just any old slob in there."

Morgan walked into the tactical operations center which was composed of several M577 tracked vehicles backed up to each other. The ramps were down and tent posts and canvases had been erected to provide shade. Desert-patterned camouflage netting was strung up over them, as well.

The tactical operations center, when operating properly, is the brain of a battle. Reports from all over the battlefield are constantly coming in and orders are going out. The TOC staff are composed of intelligence analysts, operations specialists, and senior leaders. Experts in specific areas such as artillery, aviation, and engineering may also be present.

The TOC was quite active when Morgan entered. He stepped to the side and set down his pack, watching and waiting for a quieter moment. This also gave him a moment to familiarize himself with the location of each subsection. His prior experience gave him the ability to do this by identifying the charts and overlays posted near each person's workstation and by listening to the particular lingo they used in their conversation. His experience was in human resources, which was a different command center altogether, and in operations. He slowly made his way toward the operations cell.

There was finally a lull in the TOC activity. An exasperated sergeant set down a radio hand mic and turned around.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Morgan checked the man's collar. It bore the insignia of a sergeant first class. The nametape read "REED."

"Sergeant Reed," he replied. "Major Trenton just sent me over. I'm the new operations assistant."

"Good," said Reed, breathing a sigh of relief. "For now, you can man that radio in that track." He pointed behind Morgan, indicating the work area inside the M577. "Also, keep your eyes open. Lieutenant General Honore from First Army is wandering around and might drop in for a visit."

"Attention in the TOC," bellowed a soldier behind Reed just as he finished his warning.

"Carry on," said a man with salt-and-pepper hair as he stepped into the dimly lit area. "Looks like you gentlemen are quite busy here."

"Yes, sir" confirmed Reed. "We just finished dealing with a complex attack with some insurgents."

"Ah, yes," said the general. "And how did it go?"

"One vehicle damaged. Two men wounded. Three insurgents dead. Two prisoners. MEDEVAC on the way for the wounded."

"Good. Good work." Honore smiled and looked around the TOC. His eyes settled on Morgan. "And what do you do here, Specialist?"

"Well, sir," answered Morgan, coming to the position of attention. "I was just transferred into the TOC a few minutes ago as an ops assistant so it's still anyone's guess."

Honore chuckled. "Finally, some frank honesty." He reached into his pocket and extended his hand to Morgan. "Good job, son," he said, shaking Morgan's hand. When their hands parted, a large coin encased in a square plastic envelope remained in Morgan's palm.

"Thank you, sir," replied Morgan, finally smiling. He did not look at the coin until the general turned away.

 _Imagine that,_ he thought. _A while ago, I was about to be busted to PFC and now I've just been coined by a three-star general. What a day._

xxxxxxxxxx

12 May 2005

Fort Stewart, Georgia

Lieutenant Colonel John Rey, the commander of the 180th Armor Battalion, part of the 84th Separate Infantry Brigade (Mechanized), Georgia Army National Guard, sighed wearily. Counting the month of training for an advanced party in December of 2004, his battalion - and the entire brigade - had endured nearly six months of training in preparation for a year-long deployment to Iraq. This training did not only include several long drill periods of four, five, or six days - drills for the National Guard were normally two days - and an atypical annual training period in conjunction with the Canadian army at Camp Blanding, Florida in the year prior to all of that. Colonel King and his senior officers, as leaders, had additional work days on top of that, as well.

On the civilian side, John Rey was the chief of police for the city of Doraville, a suburb of Atlanta. Doraville was a major hub of police activity, to put it quite mildly. Add to that the stresses of two years of preparation for a major deployment and the result was only one thing: the man was tired. And the main event had not even started yet. The brigade would not board planes for another week and would not land in Kuwait until the next day. Only then would the actual deployment clock - one year - begin to tick.

The battalion had returned to Fort Stewart the day before. Rather than continuing to live in the dilapidated National Guard section of the post which was finally being renovated, they had been moved to a temporarily vacated section of the active-duty housing, if only for a week. Despite his fatigue, Rey grinned. The men were enjoying the new quarters, at least. There was no more training for them. They could finally relax a bit. They only had to endure a brigade farewell ceremony in a few days and then board a plane.

Rey sat in his SUV, enjoying the air conditioning and brief moment of privacy as he thought about what was to come. As his eyes wandered, they settled on a soldier exiting one of the billets. He knew that soldier, quite well actually. Specialist Morgan, a former M1A1 tank crewman who was strong-armed into briefly being a supply specialist and then got out of it as soon as he could. He went full-time in the Guard in 1999 and became an HR specialist. It turned out he was damned good at it, too.

Rey grinned to himself again. The kid had never lost his combat arms sense of humor. It was still dark, twisted. That was why the mortar and scout platoon members from the headquarters detachment he supported and the tankers from Alpha Company liked him so much. He spoke their language and acted more like them rather than a REMF, a rear-echelon motherfucker. He was still combat arms at heart. Rey recalled a comment from the operations sergeant major during the advanced party train-up in December. Morgan was the only member of the party to qualify expert on every shooting range. He had been particularly pissed off when the training advisors had lost his records and he had to return to the ranges for another three days and do it all over again. He had come back smiling, though, having once more scored expert on everything. The kid always did enjoy shooting. Now he was sitting at a picnic table smoking a cigar and listening to an iPod.

 _And sitting with his back to the billets, eyes front, scanning everything in front of him even though he looks like he's perfectly relaxed and fucking off. Sometimes still checking his six. He's even spotted me and waved. Why wasn't he a scout instead of a button pusher? What's that on the table next to his iPod? Hah! He has a pocket knife next to it._

 _Well, a little paranoia is a good thing, I guess. Or is he doing it simply to keep up the practice of always having knowledge of where your weapon is and not necessarily paranoia? Either way, I wish I could sit there with him and have a cigar rather than go off on this leader's recon in a few hours. It would be a nice break._

xxxxxxxxxx

15 May 2005

Mahmudiyah, Iraq

Lieutenant Colonel John Rey peered through the dirt-streaked windscreen of the cramped HMWWV. Not a small man by any definition, Rey was always impressed - to use a heavily sarcastic bent on the word - by the Army's ability to design vehicles for seemingly the smallest common denominator of humankind. He shook his head at the depths - or lack of it - of Army wisdom.

He did not hit the maximum height limit to be a tanker of one hundred ninety-four point five centimeters (6'1"), but he still found himself constantly in need of a combat-vehicle crewman's (CVC) helmet to keep from banging his head on every conceivable angle inside the damned thing. His knees and feet, also, were always scrunched up next to him to keep from kicking the gunner in front of him in the back of the head. It seemed to him that the proper height for such a job would be one hundred eighty centimeters (5'6") or less. Even that would likely be pushing it.

Inside the HMWWV was no different. The Blue-Force Tracker (BFT) equipment installed in front of him had his legs positively trapped in one place. Beside that was a rack of two SINCGARS radios and speakers with microphones. On the other side of the BFT gear rested his M4 carbine in a clamp rest. With his body armor, its associated attachments, and helmet pressing down on him, Rey was weighed down by another eighteen kilos of gear. It was no wonder, he marveled, the military placed such a premium on physical fitness. It was an absolute necessity just to be able to move under such a burden.

"Tell me about this place, Captain Cassio," he said over the roar of the HMWWV's engine as they drove slowly through the town. "What's it like in Mahmudiyah?"

"Well, sir," replied Captain John Cassio, a young officer with a thin black mustache. "As I'm sure you already know, this place is the heart of the so-called Sunni Triangle and has been dubbed "the Triangle of Death." It has that name for a good reason. This is easily the worst place in Iraq. The Marines were here before Tenth Mountain and neither of us have been able to quell the violence here. It is the center of violence in this country, worse than Fallujah, Basrah, or Baghdad."

"Why?" asked Rey.

"It's the concentration of Sunni Muslims in the country. There are more of them here than anywhere else. Their hatred of us and the Shi'a drives them to more acts of extreme violence than elsewhere. It also draws more foreign fighters to join their ranks than any other part of Iraq. You'll find fighters here from Iran, Jordan, Egypt, Syria, Chechnya, just about everywhere that has an extremist Muslim population. They're all drawn here by the call of imams (Muslim religious leaders) to fight in a holy war."

"Sounds more like a world war than just an internal conflict, then," commented Rey.

"That's exactly what it is here, sir, a world war, and all against the United States and its allies. We're fighting the entire Muslim world in the Triangle."

Rey put the tube of his Camelbak in his mouth and took a long pull from it. He thought deeply for a moment. His gaze wandered out the side window to two shirtless boys kicking a rock back and forth two each other. Grinning at the innocence of their play, he continued his questioning.

"Tell me about the people here."

"The town leaders and sheiks or the local inhabitants?" asked Cassio.

"Both."

"The sheiks and local leadership, be they the mayor, the police chief, the fire marshall, you name it, are all remarkably corrupt by Western standards. It seems graft is just part of dealing with them. They expect it and won't talk to us unless it's part of negotiations. And it's just as likely as not that they're in league with the AIF (anti-Iraqi forces) so you have to watch what you way around them."

"What do you do if you find out they are supporting the AIF?"

"We arrest them, their families, and their associates and run a tank through their houses," said Cassio simply.

"How has that worked out?"

Cassio tapped the driver and the soldier seated behind him. "You guys are deaf right now, okay?"

"I'm just driving, sir," answered the driver.

"And I'm just looking out the window," replied the other soldier.

"Alright. Colonel, I think arresting the officials and even destroying the houses is just fine, but going beyond that is too much. It's turning the locals against us."

Rey nodded. "Have you ever studied the Malayan conflict, Captain?"

"No, sir."

"It was a counterinsurgency campaign fought by the British from 1948 to 1960. You could kind of say it was their Vietnam, but they had a different outcome then we did. They won. It took a long time, of course, but they did it."

"How did they do it?"

"They convinced the populace to stop supporting the insurgents. For one thing, they treated the people like people. They helped them out wherever they could. They would fight the insurgents wherever they popped up, naturally, and arrest supporters of insurgents, yes, but not their families, unless they, too, were involved. Over time, the population began to support the British more than the insurgents. With that base of support removed, the insurgency collapsed and they eventually surrendered."

"Sounds like a good idea for here."

Rey glanced out the window again. "We have to convince our leadership of that. The American philosophy of war has always been, "Peace through superior firepower." We have to overcome that mindset first. That is how we defeat conventional forces, not guerrillas."

"Are your guys ready for this, sir?"

Rey considered the question and nodded slowly. "At least my battalion, yes. I'm a police chief in Metro Atlanta on the civilian side and I've implemented a lot of the law enforcement philosophy into my battalion's training. I think the lessons I've learned have been passed down to them quite well. They know when to hold back and when to fight like devils."

"I hope you're right, sir, but please take no offense when I say that no one is truly ready for the Triangle."

xxxxxxxxxx

20 May 2005

Kuwait City, Kuwait

Specialist Morgan was tired. Not only that, his uniform tunic was almost completely drenched. He and six other specialists and one sergeant, a paralegal by the name of William Briar who used to work in Morgan's personnel section until he volunteered for Lieutenant Colonel Rey's personal security detail, were the battalion's baggage detail. This meant that every time the men changed a major conveyance, like in this case, plane to bus, these eight selected individuals had to move all of their luggage by hand from one vehicle to the next. They typically formed a human chain and passed the bags down the line to each other. While this was easier, it was still exhausting.

Morgan occasionally thought he ended up with shit details more often than not. Then the more reasonable part of his brain would kick in and he would remember how, in reality, he actually didn't get put on details very often since he became a full-timer. He was often deemed to have other more important things to do than scrub pots in the kitchen or inventory the janitor's closet, things like getting the entire unit paid or resolving incentive bonus problems for two dozen soldiers who had come forward that drill weekend.

Slumping into a seat on the bus which would take them to their next destination, Morgan smirked to himself. He wasn't in the personnel business anymore. He was in operations. His new supervisors didn't know what to do with him yet so they were farming him out whenever there was a need for a junior enlisted body. Most of the operations staff, in fact, were new to the battalion and were not aware of his true capabilities. He shrugged.

 _That's okay. I can wait. Either these guys will learn I'm not just a mindless body for grunt labor or someone who knows me will come along and snatch me up._

Morgan was perfectly aware of how arrogant his own thoughts might seem to others. Perhaps, in some ways, they were, but only perhaps. He had enough history with people in the battalion and had performed enough "miracles" to be an asset to whomever was fortunate to have him.

 _Unless they want me to play any sort of sport. I fucking suck at that. Well, not paintball. I'm pretty good at that._

Morgan turned his head to look out the window. This was difficult since there were curtains on them and a sergeant had said earlier to leave them drawn for security purposes. Morgan smirked again. He was fairly certain that any bus with drawn curtains was a dead giveaway as one full of soldiers to anyone watching. The sensible part of the directive, he had to admit with another shrug, was not to make it any easier for an observing enemy than it might already be. It didn't matter anyway. All he could see through the slits between the fabric was sand dunes and the occasional gaggle of camels. While those were new sights to him, they were not enough to hold his interest for very long. Not when the bus's air conditioning and the strange music coming from the driver's radio was trying to lull him into a nap…and winning.

xxxxxxxxxx

24 May 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

David Ashton stood in his personal training hall, arms crossed, watching the sparring match between Tristan Dahl and his girlfriend, Asami Ukita. At first glance, the pairing was quite uneven. The diminutive Asami was only one hundred sixty centimeters in height and barely hit fifty-one kilograms on the scale. So why, one may ask, was she the one wearing protective gear in an escrima stick spar?

Because she was tiny and female, one might think. That would have been an incorrect assumption. Her opponent was even smaller than she. Tristan Dahl was, from all outward appearances, a boy of twelve years. He was a full thirteen centimeters shorter and eleven kilograms lighter than Asami. Then why, a layman would ask, was he wearing no protection whatsoever? The answer was Tristan had an advantage Asami did not. He was immortal and had actually recently turned forty-five. Any injury Asami might deal him, while it would still hurt just like any normal human, would heal within seconds. In fact, the small wound she had opened near his eye moments ago had already stopped bleeding. Asami did not have that luxury.

Besides Tristan, there were five other Immortals in the room. David Ashton appeared outwardly around thirty but was over four thousand years old. Beside him was a small woman with dark hair and Persian or perhaps central Asian features. Having had no name as a slave in her pre-immortal days, she had taken the name Vivia Wales. From her appearance, she looked to be about twenty. Her real age was something over twenty-seven hundred years. The next oldest in the room was a slender Irishman by the name of Darren Dublin. He suffered his first death at the age of twenty-eight and had not aged a day since that event, nine hundred ninety years before.

Standing next to Dublin and watching the spar with great interest was a black-haired boy of about fourteen. His short, slim physique, standing only one hundred fifty seven centimeters and weighing forty-five kilograms, often made people think he was even younger. This was Jonathan Fairbanks. Dubbed by Ashton as the only surviving veteran of the Children's Crusade, Fairbanks was eight hundred six years old. A teenage girl of perhaps fifteen stood by him with her arm around his shoulder. Her hair was just as black as his and shoulder length, her eyes emerald green. Of the five Immortals observing the match, Alyssa Cordeiro was the youngest at only two hundred fifty-two years.

Tristan grunted as Asami's right stick slipped under his left, jabbing him in the abdomen. He bent from the blow. His right stick rose, deflecting the strike to his head, while his left swept underneath and caught Asami's right wrist. Her fingers opened involuntarily and the stick fell to the mat.

Asami took a step back, swinging her right stick at Tristan's temple. Tristan pivoted, his left stick blocked the blow while his right struck her exposed right forearm. The armor she wore prevented any injury but did not stop the reverberations from travelling the length of her arm. Tristan took advantage of her momentary shock and struck downward with his left stick, connecting with hers. It joined its brother on the mat. Asami was disarmed. Tristan swung his right arm to the side and tapped the side of her helmet. She grinned at him through its mesh.

The Immortals at the side of the room erupted into applause. Johnny jumped up and down, hooting in his excitement, alternating between clapping and pumping his fist. After eleven months of hard training, Tristan had finally defeated his teacher in a spar. Tristan, panting hard from his exertion, smiled at them all as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned back to Asami and bowed to her.

"Thank you, Asami," he said, still smiling.

Asami removed her helmet, revealing the exuberant face of a mid-twenties Japanese woman. She stepped up to the boy and hugged him.

"I'm so proud of you," she admitted. "You've worked hard for this." She took a step back and knelt down on one knee. Putting a finger to his chin, she smiled and reminded him, "But remember, there's still a lot more to do." Tristan nodded.

"That's right," said Ashton, clapping a few more times before stepping forward himself. Dublin followed him. They reached the edge of the mat and stopped. They removed their shoes and socks before continuing. "Learning a new weapon, for example."

Tristan looked at them with wide eyes. "A new weapon? Asami has already shown me several."

"Yes," admitted Ashton, "but none with blades and, as you know, those are the ones that matter to our kind." He formed a knifehand with his fingers and drew them across his neck as he spoke. "When I first met you in London last year, I was assessing you."

Behind them, Johnny Fairbanks laughed. Ashton turned to regard the boy. "I told him you'd do that," Johnny explained.

Returning his gaze to Tristan, Ashton continued. "I had you start learning Filipino martial arts because I believed it was best suited to you. Many of the techniques and weapons Asami has shown you can be incorporated into bladed weapons, as well. I think the weapon I am about to show you will be the best one for someone like you. It's small, light, easily concealed, maneuverable, and deadly. It and your training will also be much more effective against swords than that bayonet you've been carrying."

Ashton walked over to a table and picked up a small blade in his left hand. He held it up for Tristan to see. It was double-edged and curved like an animal's claw. On the back of the blade, there was a sharpened notch toward the handle. The handle had a curved, molded grip with a ring at the end. Ashton wrapped his fingers around it, slipping his pointer finger through the ring so the blade extended from the bottom of his palm. At the end of the ring protruded a two centimeter length of pointed steel. He picked up a clone of that wicked-looking knife in his right hand, holding it with his pinky through the ring so it blade extended from the top of his palm. Dublin stepped up and selected two exact copies of the blades Ashton held. He began to flip them theatrically in his hands.

"These are called karambits," explained Ashton, letting Dublin carry on with his showmanship. The Filipinos us them as farming tools, but they are also highly effective weapons in the right hands. In yours, with the right training, I believe they will be positively lethal even against an opponent with a sword."

"My God," exclaimed Vivia. "Doesn't anyone use normal knives and swords anymore?"

Ashton smiled at his Scythin friend. "Different times, Vivia. Different weapons."

"But how will I take their heads with those, though?" asked Tristan.

Ashton held out his palms, letting the karambits hang by their rings. "True, he said, "it would be difficult to remove a head with these, but," he grinned, "once you're at that point, it hardly matters, does it? Your opponent's weapon is available for that purpose.

"Besides, I have something in mind for you. A kukri. It's easy to conceal in that backpack you like to carry around with you, but it's not as easy to fight with…unless you're a Gurkha." Ashton regarded Tristan with a smirk. "You, my boy, don't look like a Gurkha."

Everyone chuckled at that remark. Dublin grew tired of his flipping and approached Ashton. He stood and waited.

"Other than Asami, Darren and I are the only people here who are knowledgeable in the use of the karambit. We will give you a real-world demonstration of what it can do." He motioned to Tristan. "Come closer." Looking behind him, he said, "Anyone else who is curious, step forward, as well."

The other Immortals gathered around, but kept a respectful distance. Dublin and Ashton bowed to each other. Ashton placed his karambits on the mat. Dublin did the same with one of them. The other he kept in an underhand grip in his right hand. He punched at Aston's face; it was easily deflected with a forearm. They paused.

"First of all," said Ashton, "just like certain martial arts techniques, the karambit can be used to envelope an opponent and control him."

At that moment, Dublin rotated his wrist, bringing the karambit's blade around to the exposed wrist of his opponent. Simulating fear, Ashton dropped his jaw and grabbed his arm, stepping forward. Dublin then pushed the sharp back edge of his weapon forward, rotating it again, stopping with the inside curve just short of touching Ashton's throat. Asami gasped at the sight.

"Don't worry, love," assured Dublin, aiming a charming grin her way. "I'm not going to hurt him, at least not until he says I can. Then you can place your bets on who wins."

"Wins?" asked Asami, worry on her face.

"It's okay, Asami," said Ashton. "We're not going to kill each other, though it might look like it."

Asami didn't look convinced as the men ran through the next series of demonstrations. Dublin showed how the karambit could hook, trip, lead, and stun an adversary. He then stepped back and began to flip the karambit again while Ashton rolled up his right sleeve.

"What are you doing, David?" queried Asami, going pale.

"Continuing the demonstration, my dear," he answered calmly. "Come here, Tristan."

Tristan stepped forward. Dublin stopped flipping the karambit and handed it to him, handle first. Tristan was amazed not only at how naturally it seemed to fit his hand but also at how light it was. He looked up at Dublin. The Irishman cocked his head toward Ashton.

"You see," said the Minoan Immortal, "that the blade is only nine centimeters long. To many, that seems quite small. In the right hands, however, it can be devastating."

Tristan's eyes went to the blade again. It did seem tiny, though in his small hand it appeared quite a bit larger. Its claw-like shape made it seem all the more wicked. He gulped and looked back at Ashton. The man was presenting his bare right forearm to him, palm upward.

"Tristan, I'd like for you to strike my arm in a downward motion here." He indicated the center of his forearm. "Don't worry about trying to use all of your strength. Just imagine you were swatting a fly. That should be sufficient."

Tristan looked at the blade again and then up into Ashton's eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes," Ashton replied as Dublin moved to stand by his side.

Taking a breath and a practice swing, Tristan prepared himself. His heart was pounding. He took another breath and let it out slowly. He focused on his target. He inhaled again, raising his arm, and struck downward. He kept his eyes on the blade the entire time. He saw it hit the forearm. There was a horrid clicking sound and then the blade had passed Ashton's arm. Tristan stopped his swing so he would not cut himself. He looked up to see the results of his strike.

For a brief moment, Ashton did not react at all despite the blood flowing from his arm. Then the pain hit him. Dublin stepped in and grabbed Ashton's arm.

"Come here, Tristan. Quickly," he said.

Tristan obeyed, shock on his face, as Dublin pulled back the severed flesh of Ashton's arm, exposing the true damage the karambit had inflicted.

"That clicking sound you heard," Dublin explained, "was the blade hitting bone." He pointed, using the fingers of one hand to keep the skin and slashed muscle apart. "You can see there that it cut through the bone and kept going. You severed skin, muscle, tendons, and bone and kept on going. And that wasn't even a full force strike."

Dublin turned his face toward Ashton's. "Can you move your fingers?" Ashton tried, winced, and shook his head. Dublin faced Tristan again. "And your opponent has now lost the use of his hand. You've beaten him." Dublin released his friend's arm.

Tristan stared at the bloody blade in his hand. He gulped again and tried to keep the sheer horror out of his face. "This thing is terrifying," he said.

"Yes, it is," agreed Ashton, slowly flexing the fingers of his hand again. "Now just imagine when you're fully capable of using two of them at once."

"Two of them?" Tristan repeated.

"Oh, yes," confirmed the Minoan, rolling down his sleeve. "With the techniques Asami has taught you and these weapons, I think you'll be able to hold your own against any Immortal out there."

"Now what are you doing?" asked Alyssa.

Dublin was affixing a guard around his neck. He turned to face her. "My little Portuguese beauty, you wouldn't think we'd do this next part without protection, would you?" He winked at her.

"Protection?" she repeated. "You don't mean…?"

"Exactly," said Ashton, putting on his own guard. "We're going to show Tristan what two of these can do. Darren and I have been looking forward to this for a while."

"Yeah," chided the Irishman. "The old man thinks he might stand a chance against me. He knows I'm the better one in a one-on-one fight and he's the better one on the grander scale. It's just like how a sergeant is better with a machine gun than a general but the general can plan and oversee a million man campaign and all its variables while the sergeant can't. It's always been the same way with us."

Holding his karambits in one hand, Ashton touched his lips with a finger from the other and said with a grin, "To paraphrase Shakespeare, methinks he doth brag too much."

"I like how Optimus Prime put it back in the eighties before he fought Megatron for the last time," said Johnny.

"What was that?" asked Alyssa. "I never saw it."

"What?" Johnny's head swivelled to face her. "Oh, you poor, uncultured girl. I must remedy this… after the fight. Anyway, he put it very simply. He said, "One shall stand; one shall fall.""

"That is much better," said Ashton. "We never know until it is finished." He turned back to Dublin. "Shall we?"

"Absolutely," grinned the Irishman, bowing to his friend.

By all appearances, the two were just as strange a pairing for a spar as Asami and Tristan. Ashton stood one hundred seventy-eight centimeters high and weighed seventy-six kilograms. Dublin was twelve centimeters shorter and eight kilos lighter. He was also the more flamboyant of the two, flipping his karambits back and forth theatrically, a mocking grin on his face. Ashton was just the opposite, simply circling his opponent slowly in a slight crouch. Both held their weapons with the right blade extending upward and the left down.

Dublin attacked first, his hands a flurry of spinning blades coming from above and below. Ashton stepped back, deflecting the blows deftly with the back of his fists, not using his blades at all. Occasionally, he opened his hands, letting the karambits hang by their rings, and used his palms to block the attacks, before flipping the blades back into place. The small audience heard a series of rapid clicks. The two men parted and continued to circle each other.

Ashton was facing the group first. He appeared the worse for wear. He had several small cuts, about a dozen, on his arms and torso. None of them were serious and all had likely even healed by this point. None appeared to have fazed him, except one in his left arm, which hung down slightly. He kept his eyes on Dublin as he continued to circle around.

Now the group could see Dublin. A long diagonal slash was visible from his lower left to his right shoulder. Blood continued to flow down the front of his ruined shirt. Several of the observers gawked. They had not even seen Ashton land a blow on the Irishman. Asami glanced at Ashton's hands. Blood still dripped from the karambit in his left hand.

Dublin advanced again. This time, Ashton allowed him to approach. He then pivoted, coming alongside Dublin and driving his right karambit in between his ribs. An elbow drove back toward the base of the Irishman's skull. Dublin countered with his own pivot to the right, avoiding some of the impact of the blade and evading the elbow strike completely. Blood still flowed from the shallow wound. Dublin danced forward in an immediate counterattack.

Ashton stepped back once again and braced himself against the onslaught of curving, slashing blades coming his way. His own karambits slipped in and out of the blurring motion of their fists, careening off Dublin's or striking flesh. He drove an uppercut at Dublin, intending to sink the blade of his left karambit under the Irishman's chin. Dublin's left blade came from the side and slashed up, slicing into Ashton's brachialis and biceps muscles. The Minoan's arm slumped down.

Sensing victory, Dublin cut viciously down Ashton's face with his right karambit. The blade connected just above his eyebrow and drove effortlessly through the bone of the supraorbital notch. It continued down through the eye, and out the zygomatic process bone of Ashton's cheek. At the same time, he sank his left karambit into Ashton's right side beneath the last rib. Across the room, he heard Alyssa scream, simultaneous with Ashton's own cry of pain. Dublin let Ashton back away, grinning.

Ashton slowly raised his head, his left hand to his savaged face. His right eye still watched Dublin warily. His right karambit was still raised in a defensive posture. He waited. Across from his, Dublin stood erect, his smile still mocking the Minoan. He ignored his dizziness, attributing it to the exertion of the match.

"One shall stand; one shall fall, remember? I'd say it's over, good buddy."

"Not yet," Ashton countered. "We both still stand. For the moment."

"Nonsense," declared Dublin. "That blade in your side is going to put you down within a minute. Faster if I attack again." He pointed at Ashton's wound…or tried.

"It's a waiting game, then."

Dublin looked down at his right arm. A gaping wound near his shoulder was gushing blood. A puddle of it was gathering on the floor at his feet, bathing the karambit he didn't realize he had dropped. His biceps and brachialis muscles had been severed…far worse than he had done to Ashton. He thought further, remembering his anatomy.

"The brachial artery. You've cut it," he announced to the room as he grew more lightheaded.

Ashton lowered his left hand, smiling back at his friend. The slash down his face had also cut through the side of his lip. This made the smile all the more hideous. He nodded.

"When did you do that?" asked Dublin, sinking to his knees.

"While you were cutting my face. Your arm was completely exposed. An easy target. An eye in exchange for a mortal blow. Not a bad price to pay."

"I guess not." Dublin smiled. "You win this one, old friend." He slumped to the floor.

"We'll see you in a few minutes, Darren," said Ashton, slowly pulling the karambit from his side and wincing.

"That was incredible, David," shouted Johnny, hopping with glee.

"Thank you," said Ashton, "but it came at a price." He let himself go to a knee, feeling his face go white. He put a hand to his side. "Darren did quite a number on me. Had this been a real battle, it probably would have been either a stalemate or, assuming I were still conscious after he fell, I'd have only seconds left to take his head because he wouldn't have stopped to gloat."

"Is this what I'm supposed to expect?" asked Tristan, going pale.

"No," answered Ashton, his other hand going to his healing face. "This would be a worst case scenario for you, an equal - or perhaps better - opponent with the same weapon. That is very unlikely. Even so, we'll teach you how to counter that."

"Do I start with those now?" Tristan inquired as Ashton slowly stood.

Still holding his hand to his face, Ashton shook his head. "Not yet, he replied. "You and Asami will use plastic training karambits. They have no edge and balled tips so they're not dangerous." He took a backward step.

"Are you okay?" asked Asami, her unease obvious.

"Just dizzy. Still healing. It will pass." He lowered his hand. Except for his eye, his face had healed and his normal color had returned.

"Your eye is still ghastly," said Alyssa. "Of course, it was so much worse a while ago."

"Would you rather I wore an eyepatch?" Ashton smirked.

Johnny laughed at that. "David Ashton, the pirate."

Alyssa waved her hand dismissively. "It will have healed completely by the time we find one anyway." She reached out and put her arm back around Johnny's shoulder. "Besides, Darren strikes me more as the old pirate type," she said, more to him then to the others.

Ashton chuckled. "He may have been at one time. Even I don't know his full history. You'll have to ask him."

"When do I start," asked Tristan, a little less trepidation in his voice.

"Tomorrow," said Ashton. "I think there's been enough excitement for today."

"I think it will be a long time before I can beat her," Tristan remarked. "She's very good."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure." Asami patted Tristan's back reassuringly. "You'd be surprised how much of what you've already learned applies to the karambit. Just wait. You'll catch on very quickly."

"And," Ashton added with a smirk, "when you defeat her, you fight me. Against a sword." Seeing Tristan's eyes widen again, Ashton laughed. "A wooden one. Don't worry."

Tristan pointed at Dublin's prone form. "After seeing what you did to him, I'm still going to worry a bit."

Asami patted his back again. "I'll get you ready for him. You'll be okay."

A light electric tremor starting at the base of the Immortals' spines and traveling up to their heads announced the presence of another of their kind.

"Speaking of Darren," stated Ashton, "here he is now."

There was a huge gasp of air from Dublin's body as his lungs refilled. He sat up, groaning. Putting a hand to his aching head, he shook it slowly and sat up with an effort.

"And I actually always agree to do this shit for the betterment of other Immortals, don't I?" he grumbled as he shakily stood up. He wobbled for a moment and then regained his balance.

"Damn, that's always rough, isn't it?" Finally noticing the crowd watching him on the other side of the room, he grinned and asked, "Is anybody else hungry? I'm famished?"

The perpetual cellular healing of Immortals, whether they were hurt or just normal cellular repair, resulted in an extremely high metabolism. The caloric and nutritional needs of an Immortal were two to three times that of a normal human, at a minimum. For some Immortals, they were even higher. Extreme injuries, and temporary death in particular, tended to cause a spike in those needs, resulting in hunger and often the need to sleep.

"A snack sounds like a marvelous idea," agreed Ashton. He looked down at his blood-stained and shredded clothing. "After a shower and change of clothes. Maybe even a short nap afterward."

Dublin glanced around at the blood splattered around the training hall. "Oh, man, your cleaning staff is not going to be happy about the mess we're leaving for them. You might want to give them a bonus for this."

xxxxxxxxxx

27 May 2005

Camp Buehring, Kuwait

Lieutenant Colonel Rey sat on his cot listening to his staff officers. The daily update, so far, was encouraging. Everything seemed to be on track for the battalion, and the brigade as a whole, to move north into Iraq in a week. As one who liked to be prepared for contingencies, Rey was expecting a problem to drop at every briefing. Nothing went right every time. Every leader, from a team leader all the way up to an army group commander, learned that: the first casualty upon contact with the enemy - or reality - was always the plan.

Captain Jordan Clancy, the battalion personnel officer, had one last point to deliver for the day. He scanned the notes on his pad, ticking off those he had already briefed.

"The battalion went through the ISOPREP brief tonight. They've all completed the forms and turned them into brigade. A detachment of personnel from all the battalions is assisting with retyping the handwritten forms and producing something legible to keep on file, just in case. We were the last battalion to go through the brief so now it's just a case of waiting for the detail to finish with the retyping before they're released back to their units."

Colonel Rey nodded. "Who was our contribution to the detail and how much longer does brigade estimate it will take? Retyping forms for forty-two hundred people is going to take a while. Will it delay our movement north?"

Captain Clancy referred to his notes again. "I spoke with Second Lieutenant Deeks about the timeline. He admitted to having been concerned about it originally, since eleven of his twelve soldiers are only processing about thirty-five forms per twelve-hour shift. He is even working on them himself and getting about sixty completed. He said if the twelfth member of the detail continues as he has for the last five days, working through lunch and sometimes even an hour longer, they'll finish day after tomorrow. That twelfth member is our man, Specialist Morgan."

"Morgan? But he's not even S1 (personnel) anymore. What's he doing on a personnel detail?"

"I know, sir, but he was the fastest typist and also the most detail-oriented member of the section back when he was in S1. I asked the three (operations officer) if I could borrow him for this detail. Lieutenant Deeks has even commented about several times that he has pointed out discrepancies on the forms and needing soldiers to return for corrections. I suggested that he should perhaps be recommended for an Army Achievement Medal for his work. Lieutenant Deeks agreed and has begun working on the recommendation for the deputy brigade commander's signature."

Rey nodded again. "Good. Keep an eye on that award and make sure it doesn't get lost in the shuffle. To my knowledge, no one has ever put Morgan in for an award despite all of the things he has done during his career. It's time he was recognized for at least one small thing he has contributed."

"Yes, sir," replied Clancy, writing down the directive.

Rey chuckled briefly. "I know Morgan would like to finish that detail quickly and get back to spending his time at the Green Beans coffee shop he and Sergeant First Class Lang discovered when they got here. He won't have that luxury where we're going. He should enjoy it while he can."

Getting back to business, he moved on to his intelligence officer. "Two?"

Captain Matt Barrett had little to add from previous days. He did not even refer to any notes.

"Sir, the enemy situation in our area of operations is unchanged; heavy employment of mortars and improvised explosive devices against mounted patrols and multiple complex attacks against friendly forces. All three FOBs (Forward Operating Base) report daily attacks and casualties. Tenth Mountain continues its policy of arrests of suspected insurgents and civilian personnel. Intelligence agents report local opinion of U.S. presence in the area is highly negative and expected to worsen. This concludes my brief, sir."

Colonel Rey nodded again. It was the same speech Captain Barrett had given for the last eight nights. Even Barrett looked frustrated and bored giving it. Rey took a moment to make a note of his own, underlining a section of it twice.

"Thank you, two," he said finally. He turned his gaze to his operations officer, Major Max Samson. "Three, are we still going north on the fifth?"

"Yes, sir," answered Samson. "As already stated, we will relocate to Camp Liberty in the Baghdad area for a few days in order to make room here for the next units. We will then move south to our assigned FOBs on the tenth by Chinook helicopter. Our equipment will begin to arrive the next day by convoy. We will then begin our right seat / left seat with Tenth Mountain as part of our RIP / TOA (Relief in Place / Transfer of Authority) of the AO (area of responsibility)."

Right seat / left seat was the term used to describe how an incoming unit learned the techniques used by an outgoing unit. The outgoing unit would still have control of the area and would continue operations as before with the incoming unit observing, like passengers in the right seat of a vehicle. After three days, the roles would reverse and the incoming unit would take over and begin conducting missions in the style of the outgoing unit - like drivers in the left seat - with the outgoing unit acting as advisors. This would continue for another three days. Once the incoming unit had completed this acclimatization to the area, the area of responsibility would transfer to the incoming unit and the outgoing unit would transfer out.

"Remember, gentlemen," said Rey, speaking softly, a contrast, to his louder, jovial nature. "We need to pay attention to our Tenth Mountain brothers during the RIP/ TOA. They may have TTPs (Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures) for dealing with situations in the area which we haven't considered. We should learn from their experiences.

"However, we should also be smart about the TTPs we adopt. We are not going into a fight that will be won just based on how many people we kill. It will also be based on how many people we can get to support us or, at a minimum, not support our enemies. Doing something just because the "Big Army" guys did it, if it turns people against us, is not going to win this for us.

"But don't argue with the Tenth guys, not unless what you see is blatantly illegal. I expect adult behavior and decision making. If what you see from the Tenth is questionable, report it through our chain and let us deal with it. We'll decide if it crosses the lines or not."

The staff nodded. A few of them made notes of the commander's comments. Colonel Rey questioned his logistics officer, First Lieutenant Martin Herbert, next.

"I want a daily update of the location and ETA of the battalion's CONEXs (short for Container Express, an easily-recognizable container which is easy to load on a railcar), especially the protective equipment, tanks, and soldiers' personal gear. My preference is for their personal items to arrive the morning after we do."

"So far, everything is on track for that, sir."

"Yes, but the "oh, shit" factor is much higher here than it was at Fort Stewart or NTC."

"Yes, sir. Will do," answered Herbert.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," replied Rey. "And now, the man who might as well be my second wife for how much he nags me, my executive officer, Major Trenton." Since the man sat next to him, he tapped the major's knee. "XO?"

Major Trenton smiled at his commander. The ribbing was good natured. As with so many in the National Guard, Trenton and Rey had known each other for many years. They were actually in the same commissioning peer class. The primary reason for Rey surpassing Trenton on the promotion list was Trenton had become an AGR (active guard / reserve) soldier and Rey had remained an M-Day (part-time) soldier. M-Day officers in the National Guard tended to be promoted faster than their AGR (read active-duty) peers.

Major Trenton spoke on a variety of miscellaneous topics, ranging from maintenance to supply to civil affairs and force protection. This was not a surprise to anyone since an executive officer tended to get the "ash and trash" that a commander typically, as the joke went, didn't want to handle. In reality, the commander had too much to do already and had to delegate something to someone.

Rey turned to the last man on his staff present for the meeting. He had other staff officers and NCOs for special areas of expertise, but only these few were present tonight. This was the battalion command sergeant major, the senior enlisted man in the battalion. While the staff officers were responsible for planning and coordination in specific skill areas, the command sergeant major was, at least on paper, an advisor only. The officers handled big-picture items; the sergeant major advised the commander on soldier-level issues. In this way, the commander stayed in touch with both ends, the large and the small, of his organization.

CSM Ken Doal, a mousy man with wiry glasses, leaned forward to speak. Everyone except Sergeant Major Doal noticed how everyone in the little meeting zoned out, even Rey who was making an effort not to do so. Unofficially nicknamed "Shorty" by many in the battalion, the mutual respect for Sergeant Major Doal was as long as his moniker. The sergeant major spoke about soldier issues with the tone and expression of a man who did not believe a word of what he was saying…unless believing it could assist him in some way. This essentially summed up the opinion of most common soldiers and many leaders in the battalion regarding their senior enlisted advisor.

Lieutenant Colonel Rey made a few closing statements and then dismissed his staff. He stood himself, taking a slow lap around the massive tent to clear his head before returning to his cot. He sat on the cot again and leaned back. Turning to a fresh page on his notepad, he began to sketch out some ideas for a letter to a civilian organization back home. He had an idea that might just help swing the mood of the public in his new home away from home in his favor. Having been born in Mexico, as he called it, "a third world country in its own right," he knew a few things about how to deal with people in such places. At least, he hoped he did.


	29. My Money Never Runs Out

Author's Note: The Victory Base Complex was part of a "SuperFOB," a massive forward operating base in the Baghdad area. In 2005, it consisted of several smaller FOBs including Camp Liberty, Camp Slayer, Camp Slayer, Camp Stryker, and Logistics Base Seitz. The 84th Separate Infantry Brigade (Mechanized) was headquartered at Camp Stryker during its Iraq deployment.

"Now boy, if my money was stacked high,

I believe it to my soul 'twould touch the sky  
I'd polish my teeth with a diamond dust,

I don't care if the banks go bust  
But my money, babe, never do run out"

"My Money Never Runs Out" - Banjo Joe

30 May 2005

Enfield, England

Aadam Farid took in a slow, full breath of morning air as he walked the grounds of the farm. The scents of the trees and grass were exhilarating, moreso since they were absent those of pigs, cows, or other animals. There was only the smell - and sound - of other men on the farm. The sound was primarily that of construction along with the occasional shouted command.

Farid's meandering eventually brought him to the site of the construction project. Its foreman, a reddish-blond man with shoulder-length hair and two weeks of stubble on his face, stood watching his fifteen laborers scurry about above and around him. Now and then, he would refer to the blueprints on the slanted table in front of him and nod.

"You've done excellent work here, Charles," commented Farid after a minute of silent observation.

Charles Steyn chuckled darkly while nodding his thanks. "We almost didn't make it on the first one," he replied. "Carlton was completing devices and needed the storage space almost as fast as we were building it. He was surrounded by them in his workshop and needed to get them out just to be able to move around. Now that we're onto the second warehouse, we have a lot more breathing room. Two more like this one and we'll have ten. We should be good to go. Of course, the first one will be empty soon and Carlton can start refilling it."

"Yes," agreed Farid with a grin. "Despite our setbacks, the end of next month will be quite a show for us and all of England. One hundred explosions across their bus and train transport systems in one day will shake them to a standstill. And then when they realize that is only the beginning…" Farid's grin grew as he thought about the implications.

"I would have liked to have been completing this project at our Barrow location," asserted Steyn. "Though I have to admire the ballsiness of coming even closer to London, it still makes me a bit queasy sometimes."

" _Insha'Allah_ (If Allah wills it), Charles," answered Farid. "I prefered that site, as well, but it was not to be."

In late June of the previous year, after weeks of interrogation by David Ashton's men, three of Farid's men finally broke and revealed the location of his new headquarters. A raid two days later had resulted in the death or capture of five more of Farid's men and the forced relocation of Farid, Steyn, and Pollack once again. Many of the explosive devices built by Carlton Pollack had also been captured.

Since then, the three Immortals had set up their operations in Enfield, just outside of London. In order to reduce the chances of losing many men in one raid, the foreign fighters they were smuggling into the country in ones and twos were being housed elsewhere. Another man had been hired to deal with the logistical needs of those men since Steyn was currently occupied as the foreman of the construction project. The farm needed more storage for the devices Pollack was building, lots more storage. Farid had to admit, however, that Enfield would serve as an easier loading point for those devices than Barrow would have.

"It's a good thing money isn't really a thing for your financier, Aadam," quipped Steyn, "or the cost of all this lost gear and men would be killing us - perhaps literally - by now."

This time Farid chuckled. "That is true, my friend. We are fortunate that my financier only cares about the final result, not the cost."

xxxxxxxxxx

02 June 2005  
Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Alyssa sat on Paula Thaler's bed, watching her friend typing rapidly on her laptop. The German woman's face was set in studious concentration. She clicked between screens with her mouse, double-checking figures and graphs, before finally hitting send on her latest email. She leaned back in her chair as a shadow darkened the doorway of her open bedroom doorway.

Sean Bremner, the new butler and concurrent chief of staff for Ashton's estate, stood beaming at the two young women. He held a silver tray in one hand. The other white-gloved hand was poised to knock on the door just in case he had not been noticed.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he stated happily. "I thought it might be time for Ms. Thaler to take a little break and have a beverage."

Paula turned to face the door, a smile on her lips. "Oh, Sean, you're too good to me." She waved him in as she spoke.

"Being good to people is part of the joy of what I do, Ms. Thaler."

Bremner entered and carefully placed the tray on Paula's computer desk. On it was a carafe of mango juice and two glasses. Paula looked at the glasses and then up at Bremner. She smiled again.

"And how did you know Alyssa was in here with me?" she asked.

Bremner stood up straight. "It is a butler's job to know such things," he replied stoically. With a grin, he then added, "And Johnny told me when I was preparing the tray." The women laughed at his quip as he poured the juice.

"Thank you, Sean," said Paula, accepting the glass from him. "You're spoiling me."

"And I take pride in doing so, Ms. Thaler," grinned Bremner.

"Thank you, Sean," replied Alyssa, taking her own glass. "Besides, with what David is charging you for this room, a little bit of pampering should come with it, don't you think?"

Paula nearly choked on her juice. Setting her glass down on the desk, she looked back at her friend, she answered, smiling, "Oh, please, the hundred fifty pounds a day he charges me is nothing compared to what a night at the Savoy would cost, as Sean would know." Bremner nodded.

"Sure, it might sound steep for a bedroom in a house, but look at this house. And then he lets me use everything in it, take martial arts classes with his instructors, eat meals cooked by gourmet chefs, swim in an Olympic-sized pool, and get spoiled rotten by Sean. Don't even get me started on his private security staff and the value of that alone.

"He even offered to let me use the guest house for the price, but I said I was happy with this room. When he told me that the hundred fifty per day quote was for the guesthouse and not the room and offered to change it to one hundred pounds per day, I said I wouldn't hear of it. All of the amenities make it more than worth it. My God, this room is the size of a small apartment as it is. It even has a private bathroom which I don't even have to clean."

"Still," countered Alyssa, "as we bore Sean with talk about your rental arrangements, that's still almost £50,000 per year in rent. That's half your salary, isn't it?"

Paula looked up at Bremner. "I'm sorry, Sean. We're treating you like furniture. Please, go do what else you need to do. I know, as chief of staff, you have more to do than cater to two babbling girls."

Bremner bowed slightly. "All in a day's work. I'll come back for the tray later." He grinned again and backed out of the room.

Paula looked at Alyssa and found her friend smiling at her.

"What?" Paula asked.

"Being that Sean was a Savoy butler, he doesn't take offense when people treat him "like furniture." He considers it part of the job to fade into the background until he's needed again. That's even how he trained other butlers to behave. Of course, being human, he enjoys being recognized, as well.

"Anyway, back to my question. Isn't the cost of this place killing you? Sure, it's well worth the price, but how can you afford it? Do you have another source of income?"

Paula grinned. "Of course, I do. My company is paying most of the rent."

Alyssa gawked at her. Paula explained.

"When I first came here, they noticed how remarkably improved my work became. No distractions, you see? So, when I suggested that I continue working remotely, along with a few minor benefits restructurings, they were completely open to it. So I'm only paying fifty pounds a day for all of this. The rest is on my company."

Alyssa laughed at her now, falling slowly back on the bed so she wouldn't spill her juice.

"And you could have had the guesthouse. Why didn't you take it? Couldn't you concentrate even better there without all the sounds of the family?"

"Maybe," admitted Paula, "but I thought I had struck a happy midpoint where I was. Besides, I like the sounds of Marc and Tally when they're playing. It's uplifting. And then there are the visits from you, Tristan, and Johnny. That's a lot easier to do if I'm here instead of across a massive back garden. If not for those, and Sean forcing me to have some nutrients now and then, I might forget myself and work all the time if I were in that guesthouse. And who would Johnny harass while you're playing with the kids or helping Tristan with lessons?"

Alyssa sat up on an elbow. Grinning, she replied, "Johnny? That little scamp can always find someone to pester. He's good at that. It's part of his charm." She took a sip of juice. "You met him in Germany, right, before the war? All he ever told me was he was still in the NAPOLA school at the time."

"Yes, we met in Nuremberg. Like you said, he was very charming. I, well, we, uhm, how do I put it?"

Alyssa grinned again. "I think I can surmise. You fell for him and his advances." She waved her hand lightly. "It's another talent of his. No one can resist that pretty face, especially when he smiles. So if that's what you mean, I completely understand since, obviously, I've fallen for him, too."

"He said he had a friend he missed who was in Italy at the time. Was that you?"

"Yes. I eventually had to leave, though. By the time the war ended, I was in Hungary."

"He told me that he met you before me. When was that?"

"New Year's Eve, 1929. David introduced us."

"Oh? You knew David before, too?"

"We had just met earlier that year, back in February. He was cleaning up a mess in Chicago and it turned out I was involved in it."

"How so?"

"Unbeknownst to me, I was working for him."

Paula turned her chair around to face Alyssa. "Oh, this I have to hear," she said.

xxxxxxxxxx

18 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

The Sparrow

Most of the speakeasies in Chicago were, unless the seeker knew exactly what to do or whom to ask, difficult to find. This was out of necessity since alcohol was illegal to produce or sell in the United States. Those customers anxious to wet their whistles with such beverages had to learn the secrets and find small, hidden, often dark and cramped little establishments in the recesses of other businesses. Even then, one usually had to know the right time, a particular knock, a password, or be a member.

The Sparrow was a different speakeasy in many ways. It was a typical restaurant on most nights with excellent food, live music and songs, and the occasional burlesque act. Nothing suspicious there. Only on Mondays and Wednesdays, when its door sign said it was open "By Special Engagement / Invitation Only," did its true nature come forth. On these nights, the whiskey, gin, and champagne flowed freely. So, also, did the cash from the customers who were able to afford to obtain an invitation.

David Ashton sat alone at a circular booth. He nursed his second double whiskey of the evening slowly, leaning against the cushioned back of the seat. The whiskey glass was held by its top in his fingertips as his arm dangled over the back of the booth. A tiny smile graced his lips as he watched the evening's entertainment, a beautiful female singer in a low-cut evening dress, serenade the room with an enchanting voice.

He was dressed well in a dark, tailored Italian suit. His hair was short and neat, but not so drastically so as to call it a military cut. He also wore a thin mustache in a style that, later on, would be popularized by the actor, Clark Gable. His gaze upon the singer was interrupted by the approach of the waiter.

"Are you prepared to order, sir, or would you like to continue waiting for your other guest?"

"Ah, well," said Ashton, glancing down at his forgotten menu. "There doesn't seem to be much sense in waiting any longer, does it?"

The glib smile that followed the response faded slightly. Ashton forced it back into place while his eyes furtively darted around the room. Another Immortal had just entered The Sparrow.

She was not difficult to spot. A dark-haired woman of perhaps twenty in a dazzling dress stood at the cloakroom window. The waiter's gaze was drawn to her, as well. The woman checked her long coat and turned to face the room, her emerald eyes scanning. Seeing Ashton after a few seconds, she walked nonchalantly toward him, though she still occasionally looked about the rest of the room, perhaps just to see who else was watching her arrive. Her long hair, hanging midway down her back, swayed slightly as she walked.

The woman smiled when she arrived at the booth. She slid gracefully into the seat opposite Ashton.

"Hello, gorgeous," she said. "I hope you weren't waiting long."

Ashton grinned at her as she took his hand. Looking back at the waiter, he said, "Yes, I do believe I am ready to order now."

After placing their orders, the waiter left and Ashton faced the woman. "I'm David Ashton," he said.

"And I'm Alyssa Cordeiro. And you're the person I came to meet. Also, apparently, you're my employer."

She placed an object on the table. Ashton glanced at it quickly and then she removed it, placing it back in her handbag. It was a pocketwatch, the agreed upon item to be used for him to recognize the informant he would be meeting tonight. Alyssa, on the other hand, had an easier job recognizing him. He was the only blond man in an Italian suit with a newspaper on his table and his hat on top of it.

"So I am," replied Ashton. "Much to my own surprise."

"Not as surprised as Al will be if he finds out," she grinned. "How's the whiskey?"

Ashton glanced at the glass in his hand, swirling the brown liquid around in it. "A bit watered down, but still definitely recognizable as my product. Old Al seems to be making good money off my stuff."

"Well, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," he confirmed, downing the rest of the glass's contents. He looked into her eyes. "So, other than being the ringleader of an underground network of spies for me, a network so well hidden I didn't even know who you were until now, what is your connection to Capone?"

Alyssa grinned at him. "Officially, none. Unofficially, I sometimes carry large amounts of cash to different places around the city. I'm then paid very well to forget where those places are.

"I'm known around town as being independently wealthy, old European money, you know how that goes, so no one questions my spending habits. My accent helps with that. A fringe benefit is I'm a regular here. Sometimes I even sing. I'm not as good as she is, though." Alyssa gestured toward the singer as she completed her latest number. "She's marvelous."

The waiter returned with fresh drinks and left just as quickly.

"How often do you make these cash drops for him?"

"Once a week, sometimes twice."

"Has that decreased lately, say the last three months?"

Alyssa sipped her champagne. "No, more often than not, it's twice a week now. I'd say three weeks each month."

Ashton held up his glass, looking deeply into its contents again. "Is that a fact?" he asked, looking at her again.

"Yes. Why?"

"Because Old Al hasn't paid me for the last two shipments of whiskey I sent him. That's twenty trucks of the stuff, the very whiskey I'm drinking right now. He said it was due to cash flow issues and needed more time."

Alyssa grinned at him. "From what I hear, you own every distillery in Canada. Is that right?"

Ashton nodded.

"Then why do you care about two payments from one gangster?"

"Because it sets a bad precedent for the others. If I let him get away with it, other men like him may think they can do the same."

"So you came here - yourself - to settle the matter?"

"One way or another, a message needs to be sent to Capone. Either we can do business or we can't."

"So who's the real gangster here," laughed Alyssa.

Ashton grinned at her. "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."

"Ah, so my man reads Sun Tzu."

Ashton chuckled. "I would say, I was there when he wrote it, but that would not be true."

"Not born yet?" Alyssa asked.

"Hardly. I was in Greece at the time."

"My word, how old are you?"

"Pushing thirty-nine hundred sixty," replied Ashton with a grin.

"Wow! You've done well."

"And how about yourself?"

"Me?" responded Alyssa, putting a hand to her chest. "I'm just a baby by comparison. One hundred seventy-six."

They paused as their food arrived. The waiter took great pleasure in his presentational flourishes. They indulged him with the appropriate responses.

"And," commented Ashton after the waiter had left them alone again, "after hearing your voice and seeing you up close, not that many men would pay much attention to either, I would say you are also younger than you appear to be."

"You're very good," she replied. "I was fifteen when I died the first time. With the right makeup, dress, and hairstyle, I can pass for twenty or so. Sometimes I can do the same in a swimsuit depending on who is looking at me. And you're right, most men wouldn't look or listen that closely. Why are you so different?"

"Details make all the difference in life and business. Take this prime rib, for instance." He held up a piece on his fork. "It is very tender and moist, but ever so slightly undercooked. It's not enough to make an outraged comment and send it back. Just to mention it. The taste is still magnificent. Does it affect the meal negatively or add an extra spice to it?"

"Only you can decide that," answered Alyssa.

"True," replied Ashton. "Perhaps the cook thought I'd be too drunk to notice the difference."

"And does my age make a difference to you?" she pressed, a grin on her lips again.

"That is a question for the ages, my dear girl," he pontificated. "A difference for what? For being an Immortal? Certainly not. I know another who is biologically younger than you by a year but centuries older in total. For any other reason? The debate has raged for millenia. Marriage, voting, military service, adulthood, you name it.

"Choose your culture. They each have their own arbitrary answer to the question of what age is appropriate for each question. Some even break it down by gender. Some don't.

"So, does your age matter to me, not in the slightest. If you were significantly younger, perhaps in the single digits, and I have heard such horror stories of Immortals being that young - though they never lived long - it would matter.

"I tend to go with the ancient Israeli culture's age of accountability, twelve for girls and thirteen for boys, at least when it comes to taking responsibility for decisions. They may still need guidance and training, but they have the logical capability to make some informed decisions, at least."

"So what would I be in your eyes then, a girl or a woman?" she asked.

"You have survived this long in a difficult, hazardous, adult world. As I say to my good friend, Johnny Fairbanks, the boy I mentioned earlier, though you may appear to be a child in body and sometimes choose to act as one, you are an adult as far as Immortals are concerned."

Ashton took a sip of his whiskey and continued. "And don't let the urge to act as a child now and then inhibit you. It is perfectly healthy and natural. Just be aware of when you must put that away and be an adult. Otherwise, the Immortal world will destroy you."

"I wish I had had that kind of advice when I was a younger Immortal," Alyssa admitted. "My teachers were so serious about survival that they never really let me be a teenager."

"The concept of teenage life is relatively new anyway," said Ashton. "It really only became a cultural concept in this century, more so in this last decade. Before that, there was only the cultural idea of children and adults. That is changing. There is still time for you to learn to be a teenager, though. Perhaps when this is over, I can introduce you to Johnny. He is full of life and can certainly reconnect anyone - even an old codger like me - with a new enjoyment of it."

"I think I'd like that," she grinned.

"I will warn you, though. The boy is an insatiable little sex fiend. He'll be an endless bother for a lovely girl like you."

Alyssa grinned again. "Oh, my dear, Mr. Ashton. You clearly don't know me very well. It sounds like he and I would get along very well indeed."

xxxxxxxxxx

19 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

South Baker Avenue

The house was small but well maintained. It was owned by a middle-aged couple who ran a diner a few blocks away. Their children grown, they supplemented their income by renting their upstairs bedrooms to outside tenants. This was where Alyssa and Ashton were to meet one of Alyssa's spies the next day at ten o'clock. They arrived by cab, Ashton having met Alyssa half an hour earlier across town.

"He is expecting us, correct?" asked Ashton as they approached the house.

"Yes, I called last night and spoke with him," Alyssa replied. "The Jarrells run their diner from seven until two so we have plenty of time to talk to him without being interrupted."

"Good," said Ashton, knocking three times on the door. They knocked the snow off their shoes as they waited. Thirty seconds later, the door opened. Before them stood a teenaged boy who looked to be about fifteen. He nodded his greeting and waved them inside.

"Hello, Bobby," said Alyssa, smiling at him after he had shut the door.

"Hi, Alyssa," he answered her, returning the smile shyly. He glanced at Ashton and stood straighter. "Bobby Swanson, sir," he said, offering his hand. His voice took on a slightly deeper tone when he introduced himself.

"David Ashton," replied the Minoan, shaking the boy's hand. He had a lot to learn about a proper handshake.

"Bobby," said Alyssa, putting an arm around his shoulders and mussing his brown hair, "is my right-hand man around here. He keeps the other boys in line and keeps the information flowing to me."

"Ah, it's no big deal," Bobby countered simply with his shy smile. He did not resist the arm on his shoulders despite the presence of Ashton.

They hung their jackets and hats on a hat tree and Bobby led them to the sitting room. Bobby offered them the seats nearest the crackling fire. Ashton and Alyssa sat.

"Would you like coffee?" asked Bobby. "I've made some."

"Yes, please," answered Ashton. Alyssa nodded.

"With…anything?" His pause and smirk made the question obvious.

Ashton grinned. "No, thank you. Black is fine."

"Same for me, dear," said Alyssa.

Bobby went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with two mugs for the visitors. He left and came back with a mug for himself. He sat facing the adults, waiting. Ashton sipped the coffee while Alyssa broke the silence.

"Bobby, Mr. Ashton is my employer which also makes him yours. I'd like you to be just as candid with him as you would with me, please."

Bobby nodded. "I can do that."

It was Ashton's turn to speak. "Alyssa tells me that you and your boys go everywhere, see everything, and overhear everyone in Chicago. Is that true?"

Bobby grinned. "Yes, sir. Alyssa said she wanted to know everything important that happens in the city. We make sure she does."

"Good." Ashton leaned back in his seat somewhat. "Does Capone have any other liquor suppliers besides what he brings in from Canada?

Bobby's blue eyes went wide. "From Canada? No. He has people all over the city making hooch for him, but he doesn't make as much from it as he does from the Canadian stuff. The local stuff is not as good, you see? But there's word that he doesn't like what he's paying for it. He's got a chemist from somewhere trying to figure out how the Canadian stuff is made so he can copy it."

"A chemist?" repeated Ashton. "Now that is interesting. Do you have any idea of this chemist's name?"

Bobby put his hand to his chin. "Something Pollard," he muttered. "No, not that. Pollack. Carlton Pollack."

"That's quite a nice version of the Baker Street Irregulars you have there, Alyssa," commented Ashton twenty minutes later as they walked toward the street. "I'm impressed."

Alyssa furrowed her brow for a second before the reference came to her. She grinned. Gesturing to the street sign near them, she said, "I'm not quite Sherlock Holmes. I had to go with Baker Avenue."

"We take what we can get," stated Ashton, signaling a cab.

"So what are your plans now?"

"I'm going back to my hotel for the rest of today. I have some thinking to do. Tomorrow and for the next several days, I am going to look around the city and the docks."

"The docks?" she repeated, opening the cab door.

"Yes," Ashton confirmed, circling around to the other side. "I'm going to meet with Old Al next week and I have a proposition for him that involves those docks."

xxxxxxxxxx

21 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

Chicago Harbor

Ashton stood inside the warehouse, taking shelter from the cold. It was warmer than the day he and Alyssa had met Bobby on Baker Avenue but still below freezing and several centimeters of snow still covered the ground. Not so much here on the docks, though, it had been cleared to make loading and unloading of shipping less hazardous.

The Immortal looked out across the expanse of Lake Michigan. The lapping waves of the great lake reminded him of the Mediterranean Ocean of his youth in Minoa. Such sights made him long for the bygone, warmer days of trading with the Egyptians, the childish pranks of his brother, Thekris, and the other simple joys of his pre-immortal life.

 _Has it really been nearly four thousand years since those days? Am I and a few crumbling bricks of buildings truly all that is left of the life and people I once knew? The saddest part is when I am gone there will be no one left to mourn for their passing. The_ Kephtiu _will truly be extinct._

Rapid footsteps on the metal staircase at the rear of the warehouse broke Ashton's reverie. He turned to see who was approaching. It was a man of perhaps mid-thirties bundled up against the cold. Tufts of dark hair protruded from under his cap. Curious brown eyes gazed at Ashton from beneath the long bangs. Ashton gave the man an additional measure of respect, at least, for not simply shouting down from the railings above and having the courtesy to come down to address him face to face.

"May I help you, sir?" asked the man.

"Yes, at least, I hope so," replied Ashton, extending a gloved hand. "I'm David Ashton. I'm just looking around. I own this warehouse, you see. I've come by to make sure it and its men are in good condition to start receiving goods in a few weeks."

"Ah, Mr. Ashton. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Rick Alford. Please call me Rick." Rick took Ashton's hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Let me show you around the place and introduce you to the other men," Rick offered. "We haven't had a whole lot to do since there has been no shipping for us to offload so we've either been doing light repairs and cleaning or, I'm a bit ashamed to admit, just playing cards."

Ashton grinned at Rick. "I appreciate your candor, Rick, as well as taking the initiative to improve the place. Rest assured, though, after a while, there will be plenty of work to do."

Rick led Ashton around areas of the warehouse he had already inspected. He let the man continue his tour, though. What he also wanted was for Rick to keep talking. There was no telling what he might learn.

"At first," Rick proceeded, "I thought you might be another building inspector like the one who came by last week. He was actually a decent guy and pointed out a few things we need to improve but said we had a pretty good building overall, nothing that would shut us down. I have a list, if you'd like to see it."

"Yes, please," Ashton replied, "once we're finished here."

"When I was coming down the stairs, I then thought you might be the guy who was poking around the place yesterday but he had red hair, not blond."

"Oh? And who was that?"

"Strange guy. Had an accent, too, not like yours, though. I can't really place yours actually."

Ashton smiled again. "I travel a lot. It tends to muddle the way one speaks."

Rick shrugged. "This guy sounded more British than anything else. He only called himself Carl. Said he was from the city safety board and just needed to look around. He didn't touch anything. Just walked around for a few minutes looking at the building and the pier. He then thanked us and left. To be honest, I didn't like him at all. At least the building inspector called ahead first and made an appointment with us. This guy just walked in."

"That is odd," admitted Ashton. "I'll have to take that up with the city. Leave that to me."

"Well, sir, that's it for the dime tour. Care to meet the boys?"

"Absolutely."

Due to the lack of work at the pier, there were currently only six men, including Rick, at the warehouse. When the shipping began to arrive, the manpower would more than triple. Ashton met them in the second-floor breakroom. He smiled and shook the hand of each man. He even sat for a few hands of poker with them, sharing his own cigars with them as he played.

They were playing penny ante. After an hour of play, Ashton made a point to have lost fifty cents. He was not going to clean out six men who would be helping him make millions over the next year. He thanked the men and left with a smile. As he walked out of the room, he wondered what they would have thought had they known a true cardshark had been in their midst.

As he exited the warehouse, though, he put the temporary enjoyment of the game out of his mind. He had more important matters to consider. For example, who was the red-haired Brit who was inspecting his warehouse the day before? Was it Bobby's Carlton Pollack? If so, why? Had he been sent by the city of Chicago? Ashton did not think so. Who did, then? Ashton had his suspicions, but no proof. He would have to think on that some more.

xxxxxxxxxx

05 June 2005

Camp Liberty, Iraq

"Morgan, Daniel J. How are you this fine morning?"

The tall, slender form of Sergeant Timothy Strickman grinned down at Specialist Morgan as he delivered his usual greeting. It hadn't changed in two years. Neither had Morgan's reply to it: a smile and the middle finger. This had been the custom when Strickman was a specialist and Morgan made no effort to end it when Strickman had been promoted to sergeant nine months previously.

"Well, Sergeant Strickman," answered Morgan, still lying on his cot, "since all scouts are clairvoyant, you already know the answer to that. I am here in a strange, new location in need of caffeine and fine tobacco lest my brain cease to function."

"Oh, we can't have that. The personnel god has just transitioned to the operations god. He must have all his faculties. And we scouts, having been here for a day, have naturally reconned the area already."

"As I presumed," said Morgan. He stretched his arms and set his book under his pillow. "It's settled then."

Morgan sat up with an exaggerated grunt and stood. He glanced across the way at Sergeant First Class Lang and waved. New to the battalion, Lang was still getting used to Morgan's odd sense of humor and camaraderie with the members of the scout platoon. In particular, he was confused by the curious style of speech Morgan and Strickman adopted when speaking to each other. Lang nodded his acknowledgement of Morgan's leaving. Other than waiting, there was not much else for the soldiers to do for several days.

"I'll be back in the time it takes to get to a cigar, smoke it, and walk back," Morgan said as he put on his body armor.

"How long is that?" asked Lang.

Morgan looked at Strickman while buckling his helmet. "How far are we going?"

"About fifteen minutes away."

"If it's a good cigar and there's no wind to ruin the burn, ninety minutes to smoke it. Fifteen minutes each way. Two hours max."

"Okay. Let me know if the coffee is any good and I'll go next time, too."

"Will do," said Morgan with a grin. "I think I can guarantee it won't be up to the level of Green Beans, though. He picked up his rifle and slipped a pair of Wiley-X sunglasses over his spectacles.

Morgan stepped out of the transient tent into blinding sunlight. He grinned instantly at the sight of three more scouts waiting for him and Strickman outside of the tent. Laughing, he turned back to the sergeant.

"We have a full truck now." A full complement of scouts in a HMMWV, including the truck commander and gunner, was five.

"We're your PSD," said Strickman as he and the others formed a square around Morgan. "Got to do it right, keep our most important asset safe." Morgan grinned at the comment. A PSD was a personal security detachment. Strickman was likely referring to the many times when Morgan had solved complex or high-value personnel issues within the battalion. Also, being a scout, there was a high probability of a significant amount of bullshit, as well, but that was part of the game of combat arms banter.

Laughing again, Morgan attached his M16 rifle to a carabiner on the right shoulder of his armor so it hung at the ready by his right hand. Many of the members of the battalion had three-point slings and shorter M4 carbines. This combination allowed for easy carry of the weapon at the low ready. Others, like the mechanics, medics, and personnel staff, did not have these upgrades. Since Morgan had originally come from S1, he had to make do with what he had been issued. The carabiner / sling combination was his field expedient method of obtaining roughly the same functionality as those with three-point slings. He had done so since field training at Fort Stewart and it had worked very well. He was surprised no one else had adopted the technique.

Before setting off for the FOB's coffee and cigar shop, Morgan took a moment to greet the other scouts. He shook the hand and gave a smile and a few words to each of them. Specialist Preston Salter was first. Shorter than Morgan by five centimeters, he had a square-shape to his face and dark hair and eyes. He often had a serious expression - resting bitch face, the other scouts called it - but also an easy smile when among his friends.

"Looks like I need to buy you a present, Preston. You come all the way out here for your birthday and now you can't drink. Maybe I can tempt you with a cigar or a cup of coffee, at least." Salter had turned twenty-one, the legal drinking age in the United States, two days ago. However, by the order of the Central Command theater commander, no U.S. soldiers were to consume alcohol while in theater.

"Look at this guy," replied a grinning Salter, giving Morgan a jovial shove of the shoulder. "He can't remember federal holidays and still comes in to work, but he can remember our birthdays when we're thousands of miles away from home. You're a fucked up guy, Daniel."

"Isn't that why we let him hang around us? 'Cause he's just as fucked up as we are?" asked Specialist Hunter Jay, his blue eyes flashing with humor. Even shorter than Salter, Jay was the clown of the platoon. He was also in second place as the platoon ladies man. First place was held by Specialist Jamie Grenier, a member of a different squad.

"No, Aryan poster boy," replied Strickman, referring to Jay's blond hair. "He lets us hang around him. Remember to kneel. You're in the presence of a god."

Jay knelt immediately, removing his helmet and bowing his head. "Forgive me, my lord. I have sinned."

"Oh, don't make him kneel," cried Private First Class Jason Dealer. "He's so low to the ground already that if he does, he'll disappear."

All five of them, even Jay, laughed at the quip. "This coming from the other, though taller, Aryan poster boy," said Morgan with a smirk. Placing a hand on Jay's head, he decreed, "Arise, my son, and continue your mission."

"And Jason," added Morgan, pointing a knife hand at Dealer, "even though you're the platoon baby and Hunter is tiny, that's no excuse for constantly confusing him for a teddy bear. Stop trying to drag him into your sleeping bag every night. People are going to start wondering about you."

Dealer, at nineteen, was the youngest member of the platoon. Once again, all five laughed at the ribbing. Finally, they brought their weapons to the low ready and set off for the coffee shop.

xxxxxxxxxx

07 June 2005

Camp Liberty, Iraq

Small concrete bunkers were scattered all over the Victory Base Complex in case of mortar or rocket attacks. Because of the frequency of such attacks, all soldiers had to wear their body armor and helmets when outdoors. The kevlar helmet, an old stand-by for decades, had been replaced by the Army Combat Helmet (ACH), a smaller, lighter helmet that allowed for more freedom of head movement, especially when prone with a pack on one's shoulders. If mortar or rocket attacks occurred, soldiers were to make their way to the closest bunker and take cover.

One of these bunkers was located immediately next to the tent where Specialist Morgan resided. At least for the next few days, it had become his little reading shack. It was also a convenient place for him to light a cigar or, at times, the hand-carved Italian briarwood pipe he had purchased just before leaving the States. Normally well over $200 in price, the tobacconist had given Morgan a substantial discount on both it, several ounces of fine tobacco, and other pipe care accoutrements upon learning he was about to deploy.

Morgan sat on the preformed seat of the bunker now, his helmet by his side. An open liter-and-a-half bottle of water sat beside it. His rifle was leaning against the corner, only centimeters from his hand; a loaded magazine was affixed to the buttstock in a customized carrier. He wore a battery-powered LED headlamp around his forehead, its tilted red light illuminating the unabridged copy of _Les Miserables_ in his hands. In his teeth, he held the briarwood pipe, puffing it slowly as he read.

The sound of boots crunching on the large gravel that covered the ground across the entire FOB interrupted his reading. He lowered his book and removed his pipe. Specialist Jay's smiling face appeared in the doorway. His blond eyebrows had a pinkish hue in the red light.

"Hey, Morgan, are you a Star Wars fan? I just heard they're gonna play _Revenge of the Sith_ on a big screen tomorrow night across the way."

"I'm not a fanatic," answered Morgan, "but I've seen them all and it would be a good way to kill some time. When is it?"

"21:00, right after dark." Jay was practically jumping with excitement. "I'll come get you around 20:30 and we can walk over there."

"Not a problem. I'll be here or in the tent."

"Cool. I'll see you then."

xxxxxxxxxx

08 June 2005

Camp Liberty, Iraq

Morgan was surprised by both the size of the screen on which the movie was to be shown and the number of people who showed up to see it. Ever since arriving in the Central Command theater of operations, he had heard constant warnings about gathering in large groups - they were greater casualty risks if a mortar or rocket landed nearby - and had been told to avoid them. Unit formations, a mainstay in the Army, for any reason, were forbidden while in theater. Morgan was amazed this event had been approved. There had to be at least one hundred people seated on the wooden benches lined up in front of the movie screen.

Since he was not a devoted Star Wars fan, Morgan had some difficulty keeping track of the characters in the film. He recognized the younger versions of the primary figures from the original trilogy, but other then that, he was pretty much lost. As the movie progressed, he wondered if the actor, Hayden Christensen, was one he liked or not. He knew he did not care for the portrayal of Anakin Skywalker, snivelling teenaged twat that he was, but debated whether to allow that to shade his opinion of the actor or not. Did he hate the character because the actor sucked or because he was good at his job? Morgan decided to remain undecided. Ultimately, it wasn't worth his mental energy.

Overall, Morgan found the film to be mediocre. He actually enjoyed his friend's reactions to it more than the film itself. Specialist Jay was always entertaining, to say the least. Morgan decided the viewing would be worth it just for the excitement of his friend, if nothing else.

There was one scene, however, that did catch Morgan's attention. In the last third of the movie, during the destruction of the Jedi temple, a young padawan, perhaps eleven or twelve years old though his age was hard to guess, attempted to protect another character from pursuing clone troopers. Using his lightsaber, he struck down three troopers and killed another by deflecting his incoming blaster fire back at him. The boy was finally killed by the other troopers' fire, but not before he had bought enough time for the other character to escape.

Morgan found this scene intriguing. Hollywood tended to eschew showing children die onscreen. It had been done here quite openly. The only real saving grace, Morgan decided, was the actor had been on screen for so little time and the scene had been so fast paced that it was nearly impossible to even get a decent look at the padawan's face, let alone judge his age or any other trait about him. That allowed a good bit of anonymity for the character and distance for the viewer, lessening the impact of a child's death. Morgan smirked. Leave it to him to focus on such a morbid detail of a movie rather than the overall plot.

Another morbid thought entered Morgan's mind during the final scene of the film, the one in which Darth Vader was shown in his characteristic black suit. Morgan knew that in three days time, on the evening of the eleventh, the battalion would be going to their assigned battlespace and their true war would begin. He did not know much more than that. He only suspected that all of the relative luxuries of Kuwait previously and Camp Liberty now would likely be gone and a much harsher life would begin. At least, that was what he was mentally preparing himself to face since he had no other information.

With those thoughts in his head, as Darth Vader loudly screamed, "Noooo," across the viewing area, Morgan's eyes drifted into the distance. Far off, he could see the luminescent glow of a rocket as it flew through the air. Morgan wasn't sure, but he had a notion that many such rockets and other horrible things were going to be directed toward him sometime very soon. In fact, despite all the tripe he had told his friends about being safer in theater than on American highways, he was already beginning to doubt the likelihood of his own survival of this deployment. Even in the warm June of Iraq, Daniel Morgan began to shiver.


	30. Drink It Up

"Oh, a drink in the morning is good for the sight,  
And twenty or thirty between that and night.  
Drink it up, go to bed and just think it no sin  
To get up in the morning and at it again.  
Sure if I was to throw my _cruiscín lán_ away,  
Then who'd drown the shamrock on St. Patrick's Day?  
In winter or summer, in June or July,  
I'll drink _poitín_ till the day I die."

"A Drink in the Morn" - Packie Dolan and the Melody Boys

11 June 2005

Enfield, England

Aadam Farid closed his laptop. He'd had his eyes focused on it for hours and needed a break. Rubbing a hand over his bearded face, he stood from the small desk in his bedroom and picked up his cup of tea. He sipped the lukewarm liquid as he thought. Nodding to himself, he ambled down the stairs to the front door and went outside. It was time to visit Carlton.

The Englishman, as usual, was hunched over his worktable, his attention solely on the explosive device in front of him. He had naturally sensed Farid's approach but, once he had verified the visiting Immortal was not an enemy, had returned his focus to the only thing that interested him, his work.

Farid stood at the far side of the room and watched Pollack work for several minutes. He said nothing, only sipped his tea. He was surprised when it was Pollack who broke the silence.

"Next time, if you would be so kind, please bring a cup of tea for me, as well. That smells quite nice." His eyes never left the bomb as he spoke.

Farid glanced down into his teacup. He frowned slightly, admonishing himself for his own lack of courtesy. He changed his expression to a smile and looked back up at Pollack.

"Forgive me, my friend," he relied. "Usually, I would have thought to have done just that. When we finish our chat, I will bring you a cup. You have my word."

"Thank you," said Pollack, still focused on his worktable. "This chat is going to take a while, I see, since you've been standing there for nine minutes and said nothing. What brings you here?"

Farid grinned again and crossed the room. He sat by Pollack. "You never cease to amaze me, Carl. Only you could tell the passage of time without ever referring to a watch."

Pollack shrugged. "It's not difficult once you've both spent a lot of time with nothing to do but count the seconds and," he finally looked at Farid and gestured to the components on the table, "when you deal with the science of time, i.e. life and death."

Farid chuckled at that comment. "Well said, Carl. Somehow, I suspect, though we were continents and centuries apart, we may have had remarkably similar beginnings, in a way." Farid leaned forward in his seat. "I confess, my friend, I am only partially here on business. I am tired and wanted a break so, while I did come to check on things, I also wanted just to talk for a few minutes, if you did not object."

"I guess I could to with a breather," said Pollack. "It's almost lunchtime and I've been at this since six o'clock."

Farid's eyed widened briefly. "I thought I missed you at breakfast. Now that I think of it, and forgive me for not noticing before, you are never there, even when it was just the three of us."

"Right," said Pollack. "I usually just have a cup of coffee in the morning and get to work. Sometimes, I'll have a snack in the midmorning, but I practically never have breakfast. It does make me enjoy a rather large lunch, though."

"I would say so, my friend. Before we go on, let me call the house and have the cook bring tea for us both. It's not the same as personal delivery from me, but I would like to continue this conversation uninterrupted."

Farid pulled his cellphone from his pocket and dialled a number. He spoke a few quick words, thanked the cook, and hung up. "Now let us continue," he said, smiling. "Please tell me about your long periods of counting the seconds."

"Well, that is a simple story," began Pollack. "I grew up near Grimsby which is about three hours north of here. Of course, it was over three hundred years ago. My father was a fisherman and I would regularly go out on the boat with him. There would be a lot of work to do, obviously, but also a great deal of nothing to do but wait.

"We didn't have watches. Those were for rich people, but I became quite skilled at telling time not only from the position of the sun but I could also tell how much time had passed in my head. It turned out mathematics, chemistry, and other complexities were a natural thing for me. I didn't know this until I was in my thirties, though. Before that, I could barely read."

Grinning again, Farid leaned back, his seat squeaking as he did so. "How did you meet your first death, Carl? We all have our own unique tales. What is yours?"

"The dumbest of them all," scoffed Pollack. "I was knifed over the cost of a fish."

"A fish?" repeated Farid with disbelief.

"Yes, my father and I were selling our catch from that morning. Oh, did we have a magnificent haul that day. Haddock, cod, whiting, whitefish, halibut, anchovy, smelt. That day we also had an impressive catch of Cornish salmon along with everything else.

"I was haggling with a customer, a tall traveller who was passing through town, over a salmon. He was touching the fish and caught his finger on one of its teeth. He demanded I lower the price because it had cut him. I laughed and said I should raise it because the dead fish still had some spirit left in it.

"The man must have had a short temper. I was smiling at him and thought he'd see that I was clearly joking with him. He did not. That was it. He pulled a knife from his belt and plunged it into my stomach right there. I died that night."

"That is horrifying, Carl," replied Farid as the cook entered the room. The man set the tray on the table. On it were a pitcher of hot water, two teacups, assorted tea bags, and small cups of honey, milk, and sugar. Farid nodded his thanks and the man left. "What happened next?"

"Well, clearly my parents and young wife were devastated. The traveller ran as soon as he realized what he'd done. I heard later he was caught and summarily hanged for it. Anyway, when I revived, I found my parents and wife sitting by my deathbed in tears.

"As soon as I started to breathe again, their dispositions changed entirely. Rather than being the son or husband blessedly returned to them, I was a terrifying monster. I never even really was able to get a real word out to them. Before I knew it, my own mother was chasing me with a knife and I was fleeing the house into the night."

"When did this occur?" inquired Farid.

"1650. I was twenty-six. Would have been twenty-seven if it had been a month later. Anyway, I ran. A week later, I was in Sutton-on-Sea and had gotten a job as a fisherman's assistant. I kept my mouth shut, worked, ate, and tried to understand what had happened to me."

Pollack paused, fiddling with the tea things. "I suppose that's pretty much the story of all new Immortals, but it's mine. A year later, I chanced upon another Immortal, Darmond Bilsby. He was a minor noble and quite bored. He saw me as a project to keep himself entertained for a while. That while turned into nearly fifteen years while I lived with him.

"I guess you could blame him, in a way, for sparking my interest in science. He had quite a library and I wanted to know what was in all those books. That meant he also had to teach me how to read. And not just English, but French, German, and Latin, too. This kept him interested in me for several more years.

"Finally, though, after I had apparently learned all I could or all he wanted to teach me, Darmond grew bored of me. He gave me a sum of money, the sword of my choice, even a few books, and told me to leave in three days. He said I could return for occasional visits, should the mood strike, but it was time for me to set out on my own."

"Do you resent him for his decision?" asked Farid. "For sending you away?"

"I was stunned, at first, and harbored some resentment but it didn't last long. I realized before long that he was right. I did need to become my own man."

"What became of this Bilsby?"

"I heard he got involved with a group of Immortals a few years ago. Some IRA bitch named O'Banian was going around killing mortals and their families for some reason. He sent me an email five years ago and said I should join them, had just the kind of skillset they needed. They were in Paris at the time. By the time I got there, all I found was word of a lot of violence, dead mortals everywhere, and the police being baffled by several decapitated bodies in the city. I never learned if Darmond was one of them or not. That's the last I heard from him. I guess I could have tried responding to the email, but I never did.

"And what about you, Aadam?" asked Pollack, sipping his tea. "What is your story?"

"I, too, am familiar with having to wait, be it while traveling long distances, waiting for prey to enter a trap, whatever. But, whereas you dealt with an ocean of water, my ocean was one of sand. I grew up in the city of Medina in Arabia. It was not an easy life, but it was the one I knew much, I am sure, like the one you had as a boy.

"When I was thirty, a man came to our city from the neighboring city of Mecca. We had heard of him. He had claimed to have heard revelations from an angel of Allah and to have been commanded to unite the nations under the one true religion, that of Islam. I had heard of Jews and Christians, of course, and many of us, including myself, followed our own pagan religions. The things this man said were similar to what the Jews and Christians professed, but they struck a unique chord with us. I was one of the first to convert when he arrived in Medina.

"This man, the Prophet Muhammad (may peace be upon him), also told us of Allah's call to return Mecca and the _Ka'aba_ , a great black stone monument located there, to him. Mecca, it is said, had always been the center of Allah's religion but over the years it had fallen to the pagans. We were to either convert its inhabitants to Islam or capture it for Him."

"And did you?" pressed Pollack conversationally.

"Not right away. We had many enemies. The Qurayshi tribe, a group of mercantilists in Mecca, were one of them. Two years after the Prophet arrived, we had already faced them in battle once before at Badr. The Meccans were seeking to avenge their losses at Badr when they confronted us at the valley of Uhud. By your calendar, it was the year 625 when this happened. I was thirty-two.

"There were six hundred fifty believers present that day; six hundred infantry and fifty archers. We were opposed by nearly ten times that number of Qurayshi that day. The battle was harsh. We fought on the slopes and plains of Mount Uhud and, with the grace of Allah, pushed the unbelievers back. Part of their camp was even undefended. However, that is when things started to go wrong, at least for me.

"Our archers left their positions, against the orders of the Prophet (peace be upon him), and began to seize the booty from the Qurayshi camp. This left the infantry unprotected. The Qurayshi cavalry swept through us, causing much chaos in the lines despite our valiant attempt to fight them off. Many of the believers were killed. I, in fact, was run through by a cavalryman's javelin as he rode past me and fell to the desert floor. The Prophet's forces were forced to withdraw up the slopes of Uhud. Fortunately, the Qurayshi did not pursue them. Instead, they declared victory and returned to Mecca.

"I drew my first Immortal breath there in the bloody sand of Mount Uhud. The battle was still raging and the horse soldier's broken javelin was still deep in my chest. I thought I had merely been knocked unconscious and was now aware of myself once again, though in horrendous pain. Unlike you, though, I did not have to wait for a mentor to let me know what I was. Along with the agonizing pain in my chest, I also felt the awful clanging in my head of another of our kind nearby.

"Hamza ibn al-Walid had been wounded during the cavalry counterattack and had lingered in order to heal from his injuries. He crawled over to my side and assisted me in withdrawing the horrid javelin from my chest. He then told me, in very terse words, what I was and what my choices were. I could leave with him now and learn more about my destiny or keep my apparent death a secret and remain with the Muslims. Either way, he said, he would stay with me until I was ready to accept what I was and benefit from his tutelage. I chose to stay."

"Why?" asked Pollack. "What he had just told you must have radically changed your world."

"I was too caught up in the moment of battle and my own resurrection, believing it a gift from Allah for my battlefield sacrifice, to immediately believe what Hamza had told me. In my naivety, I stayed with the Prophet's army until he recaptured Mecca in 629. Only after that did I finally accept the offer of Hamza's knowledge of the Immortal world.

"It is interesting that you mention the name, O'Banian. I, too, had an associate involved with her in the goings on in Paris a few years ago. His name was Omeir Faaris. He was a true giant of a man, two hundred eight centimeters tall. He was also a good four centuries older than our own David Ashton, whom I believe was his adversary at the time. Sadly, I know of his status when that affair ended. He was killed by an Immortal or a Hunter, I don't know which, in Scotland during the last weeks of the war."

"I'm sorry to hear that. And, since you asked me, I will reciprocate," said Pollack. "What happened to Hamza?"

"Sadly, he is no longer with us. I heard the most unbelievable story about how he met his end, but our kind are rife with such stories. Considering the two secular weaknesses I knew Hamza to have, though, there is some probability to it. Also, a good friend of mine, Maksimillian Khristenko, was present that day and told me of it. I place great weight in what he tells me."

"And what did he say?" asked Pollack.

"Hamza liked little boys, preferably between ten and fourteen. That and a likeness for alcohol, since he predated Islam and had an affinity for the stuff long before the Prophet's restriction against it, were his two worldly vices. I am told that, in 1972, while drunk he made aggressive overtures toward two Immortal boys in northern Florida. When they both refused his advances, he grew angry and drew his sword, saying he would have their bodies one way or the other. One of the boys fought him, bested him, and took his head. And he did it with a _sgian dubh_ , of all things."

"Do you know who these boys were?"

"I was only able to learn the name of one of them. Penance Cameron. Other than that, I know nothing, not even their current whereabouts." Farid set his cup aside and dangled an arm from the worktable.

"In honesty, though, I cannot hold a grudge against them for it. I respected Hamza as my teacher, but his sexual preferences were abhorrent to me. I can place no fault on the head of the boy who killed him."

"Didn't you and Charles run into some child Immortals in London last year?"

Farid grinned at the reminder. "Yes. Three of them. One of them was even the right age for the story Khristenko told me. The likelihood of it being one of the same boys are slim, however. Except for the other two in question, child Immortals tend to die very quickly."

"Yes," said Pollack. "I've heard of the other two, especially Fairbanks. Even Darmond knew of him back when he was teaching me. In fact, one of his greatest lessons was to never underestimate an opponent. He used Johnny Fairbanks as an example and mentioned how the kid was thought to have taken over two hundred heads at the time, usually from people who thought he was an easy target. I didn't believe him at the time. Now, though, knowing the boy is still alive, I can only surmise it was true.

"I'm no saint, of course," admitted Pollack. "I've killed seven child Immortals in my life. They were easy kills and most of them were probably in their first decade of Immortal life. There was only one who was able to put up a fight and even that didn't last long. I remember one a few years ago who said he had just "woken up" from a bicycle accident a few weeks before and couldn't understand why he was so hungry and having random headaches. I told him I'd relieve him of the headaches.

"And who is the other one you saw that day? A girl, right?"

"Yes, Alyssa Cordeiro." Farid scowled even at the mention of her name. "If that little Jewish harlot isn't killed in the next few years, there is a high likelihood she could soon become just as formidable as Jonathan Fairbanks is purported to be."

"Why is that?"

"Because she is the love slave of Fairbanks. She is surely learning more than simply how to please him in the bedchamber. They are also both students of our mutual enemy, David Ashton. I have done a great deal of research on this man and it has become apparent that all Immortals who accept his instruction become imminently powerful."

"Is he really that strong?"

Farid laughed and looked at Pollack with bright eyes. "You fought him yourself, did you not?"

"Yeah, but that was seventy-five years ago."

"Well, being the only one of us who has confronted him personally, what would you say?"

Pollack sipped his tea to allow for time to form his response. Looking back at Farid, he nodded. "He's very good. I'll give him that. No one is invincible, though, not even David Ashton or any of the Immortals in his little circle."

"Well said, my friend," replied Farid. Gesturing to the components on the table, he asked, "And with these, perhaps we can humble him somewhat. How goes the preparations?"

"You've obviously seen how many are in the storehouses," said Pollack, switching to a more businesslike tone. "There are more than enough for the volunteers you've brought in to conduct the attacks. We just need to start sending the devices to them soon. When do you want to do that?"

"In two weeks," Farid answered. "The attacks will be early next month."

"Good. I'm already working on the devices for the next attack. Per your timeline, I should easily have enough of them by the time you want to begin the operation."

"Outstanding, Carl. I knew I had the right man for the job." Farid's smile lit his entire face. "Now let us go have lunch and enjoy the thought of David Ashton, his friends, and the whole of England drowning in blood."

xxxxxxxxxx

11 June 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

 _Has it really been a year already? Look at how much has changed in just a year. How much they have changed._

Ashton sat on the deck of his house and watched the children play in the back garden (Americans called it a backyard). They were especially enjoying running around between the areas lit by the bright house lights and the near total darkness.

Ashton had not seen them for nine months due to Vivia Wales having taken the three of them on a trip across Asia and then through Scotland and Ireland. They had only returned a month ago. Sure, they had seen each other on a regular basis thanks to the wonders of video chat technology, but it had not prepared Ashton or his girlfriend, Asami Ukita, for the radical changes that had occurred. In that time, their adopted nine-year-old daughter, Grace Natalya, or Tally (pronounced similarly to Molly), as she liked to be called, had grown a noticeable five centimeters (two inches) and her blonde hair was significantly longer. She had also learned a smattering of several Asian languages and, much to Asami's pleasure, had improved her command of Japanese.

Marc, or Marcus Aaron, Ashton's adopted son, now eight, had also grown seven centimeters (nearly three inches) during the excursion. Like his sister, he could now partially speak several new languages and had developed a strong interest in Asian cultures. Both of the children had also developed significant tans during the trip but those had faded somewhat during the two months in Ireland and Scotland.

The third child, Balach Safayi, whom Ashton had rescued from Afghanistan the year before, had grown as well, though not as much as the other children. Always tiny, Balach had grown two centimeters while he was away. Like the others, he also needed a haircut. Another surprising aspect of his return, however, had been his amazing improvement in speaking English. Barely able to speak more than a few words of the language when he left, Balach was now considerably improved and, while not perfect, was definitely fluent.

The biggest shock Ashton and Asami had upon seeing him again was learning he had a new name. Balach had decided he wanted to be more like his new family and had begun referring to himself as Blake. He had also taken the middle name Caleb in honor of the nickname _Keb_ , the Pashto word for fish, which Tally and Marc had given him when he had taken so quickly to learning how to swim.

All three children had taken a late nap in order to be awake at this time of night. It was ten thirty in the evening on a Saturday. Since Ashton practiced many aspects of the Jewish religion, including doing no type of work on Saturday, they had to wait until after sunset for the event that had planned for today: Balach's - or, rather, Blake's - eleventh birthday party.

Afghans do not celebrate birthdays in their culture. Blake had chosen to fully integrate into his new British family and had requested that they treat him like any other child in the family. This included birthday parties. Today, he would have his first. Now that Shabbat, the day of rest, was officially over, the candles on his cake could be lit. Ashton also had another surprise in store for him.

The last surprise from the Asian trip was one with which Ashton was still trying to adjust. A seven-month old Tibetan mastiff puppy darted around the garden with the children. Named Despa, or Brave in Mongolian, by Tally because she said he'd make a great guard dog when he grew up, the animal already weighed over thirty kilograms and was half a meter tall at the shoulder. Despa had brown fur over most of his body except for a black mask covering the majority of his face. A brown spot dotted the top of each eye and his muzzle, except for a thick black line of the mask extending down to his nose, was also brown.

Marc had just allowed the massive puppy to knock him to the ground and was currently having his face covered by sloppy dog kisses which, by the sound of his laughter, he loved. Blake, Vasily - the son of their martial arts instructor - and Tally each pounced on Despa from opposite sides. They didn't do it to rescue the boy from copious lickings, just to play with the dog. With an excited yip, Despa twisted himself to one side and then the other, giving the children's faces several licks before returning to Marc and then repeating it again.

Finally, exhausted from the play, Despa flopped down on top of Marc, his forepaws on the boy's chest while his tongue lolled out. He panted loudly. Blake laughed at the sight and stretched out beside his playmate. He rested his head behind the dog's heaving shoulders, a contented smile on his face. Tally, deciding Blake had the right idea, crawled around her brother's head and lay next to Blake, placing her own head next to Blake's. Vasily lay on the dog's other side.

"Hi," said Blake, grinning at Tally.

"Hi," she returned, giving him a grin of her own. "He makes a great pillow, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, he does."

"But he's drooling on me," complained Marc lightheartedly, though he was also smiling as he scratched the dog behind the ear.

"Now that is adorable," commented Alyssa from the deck. Her face glowed as she watched the children. "I wish we could take a picture of that."

"So do I," replied Ashton. "I need to get a camera that takes better photos in low light like this."

"You'd think," said Johnny, "that with all the gee-whiz gear you have at NextGen that you've have some cool stuff for yourself, too, David."

"There's business and then there's personal gear. I need to get better about accumulating some quality personal equipment for times like this."

"Yeah, we've finally all got cell phones like the rest of the world. Maybe it's time for digital cameras, too." Johnny grinned at Ashton.

"Perhaps you're right."

"You've got your own money, too," said Tristan. "Why don't you get a camera for yourself?"

"'Cause I know that David's going to do it anyway. Why spend my own money if he'll do it for me?" The teen Immortal looked back at Ashton. "It's a business concept, right? Don't use your money if you can use someone else's?"

Ashton couldn't resist a grin. "That's right."

"Oh, gods," said Vivia, finally speaking herself. "Jonathan Christopher Fairbanks, you can be such a little parasite sometimes. Buy the damn camera yourself, if you want one." She still smiled and her tone was not angry.

"Nuh uh," countered Johnny. "I'm gonna get a video camera so you and Dev can record yourselves and start your own porn site."

Vivia laughed and tried to swat at Johnny. He avoided it with a grin on his face. "In your dreams, little man." Turning to point a finger at Devon Sather, she said, "Not a word." The tall Watcher just sat and smiled.

"And what wonderful dreams they are," Johnny taunted. Glancing Alyssa's way, he added, "I would do the same for Alyssa and me, but that would get us arrested real fast."

"You and everyone who viewed your site," stated Asami, herself unable to prevent a humorous smirk.

"Weren't you involved in that sort of thing once before? Back in the seventies?" asked Vivia. "I thought you said you didn't like it."

"Yeah, I was. It's different if it's voluntary…and a joke. I don't think I could really do it. Even I have limits."

"There it is," announced Ashton. "We finally found the line even Johnny Fairbanks won't cross."

Alyssa snorted, her eyes bright as she regarded her boyfriend. "Well, that's a relief. I was starting to think there were no boundaries with him at all."

"Hey, I'm right here, you know," Johnny fired back.

"I know that, dear, I can see you," replied Alyssa. "But, as you so love to say yourself, it's a lot more fun to ridicule someone to their face than behind their backs."

Johnny cocked his head to the side. He blinked, surprised to have his words used against him. Smirking, he leaned back in his seat.

"True, very true," he said. "I can't fault you there."

Asami reached across to nudge Stanislav Orlov. "Hey, Stas, Vasily gets along incredibly well with our kids. If he keeps coming over to play with them like this, David might just decide to keep him." She grinned at the Ukrainian as she made the humorous threat. Stas just chuckled.

"They're practically siblings already. I don't think he'd even notice a difference except for having a new room to live in."

"Hey," interjected Ashton. "Don't go obligating me to caring for another child." He smiled and pointed at Johnny and Tristan. "I've already got these two little headaches to go with the three in the yard. I hardly need another one."

"Hah!" replied Asami. "As if you wouldn't love having yet another child in the house. I know you too well, David Ashton."

"Granted," said Ashton with a smirk, "but I'd hate to deprive Stas of the one thing he loves even more than his wife."

Stas blushed at that comment. The big man even seemed to shrink a bit. "Very true," he admitted.

The door to the deck slid open smoothly. A white-haired man in a dark suit stepped out and beamed at the group, his white-gloved hands clasped in front of him. Ashton's jaw dropped.

"Sean Bremner, what are you doing here on your day off?"

"Oh, come now, sir," replied the butler. "I could hardly be absent on the day of little Blake's first real birthday party, could I?"

Ashton smiled and stood. He approached the butler and extended his hand.

"No, I don't suppose you could. Thank you for coming, Sean."

"It's my pleasure, sir," said Bremner, taking Ashton's hand.

"You're a wonderful man, Sean," added Asami. "Thank you for being here."

"I'm glad to be able to help, ma'am," answered Bremner.

"Does that mean it's time to call the kids in from the garden and have cake?" asked Eric Doyle, breaking his long silence.

"For a personal trainer, you certainly do love cake, don't you?" asked Jennifer Ellis, the petite Algerian sitting next to him.

"I like to eat - a lot - but I don't like the results of it so it motivates me to work out," said Doyle. "It's a good combination."

"Yes," replied Ashton. "It's time. Johnny, Tristan, round up the little ones, please."

"Will do," said Johnny, bouncing out of his chair. Tristan was right behind him.

"And, since you mentioned it, Eric, you can help Sean bring out the cake and other fare."

"I'd better go with him," volunteered Ellis. "Eric can be all thumbs sometimes."

"Say what?" countered Doyle.

"You heard me," she replied. "It's not like I met you yesterday, you know."

Doyle harumphed and pretended to sulk as he followed Bremner into the house. Ellis just smiled as she trailed them both.

"They're cute. They make a nice couple," said Asami.

"What?" asked Alyssa, surprised. "You think they're dating?"

"Aren't they? They're always together when I see them anyway. Kind of like you and Johnny."

"Hmmm… I'm not sure. I mean, it's possible. It would make sense and, you're right, they are cute together."

Vivia laughed behind them. "You're right. As a matter of fact, they are together. It works out well since Jen's hobby is cooking. She's always experimenting with new recipes and Eric is always willing to try them out."

Asami and Alyssa turned their gaze to Vivia. "When did you learn this little bit of gossip?"

Vivia grinned at them. "During our trip across Asia. They'd been an item for about a year or so when we started it so they're pushing the two year mark now. They tried to hide it for a while but it was just too obvious. Even the kids could see it."

"See what?" asked Tristan as he walked back up the deck stairs. Marc and Tally were right behind him. Johnny, Vasily, and Blake were a few paces further back. Despa trotted along with them, as well.

"That Eric and Jennifer are a couple," said Vivia.

"Oh, yeah, anyone can see that," observed Tally, grinning. "They're like little puppies."

"Oh, really?" asked Alyssa, smiling at the girl. "Do you say that because it takes one to know one?"

Knowing how the question would end, both Marc and Tally approached Alyssa with wide grins. "That's right," replied Tally. "I'm a puppy, too."

"Well," said Alyssa. "I just love to cuddle little puppies." She reached out and wrapped an arm around each child, pulling them to her. Giggling, they allowed her to pull them into an embrace. Alyssa occasionally added a tickle here and there with a finger. Like their animal likenesses, the children wiggled and laughed, increasing the enjoyment for all involved.

The laughter of the two younger children was accompanied by that of Blake and Vasily as they watched the antics. Putting an arm on the smaller boy's shoulder, Blake pointed and giggled at the predicament of his siblings. Vasily joined him in the joviality. Both boys' merriment turned to cries of surprise as arms clamped around their waists.

"Don't think you can just watch and not play along, little one," Asami said into Vasily's ear as she pulled him into her lap. Beside her, Vivia had moved closer in order to ensnare Blake. Smiling and laughing just like Marc and Tally, both boys attempted to resist their captors briefly. They then settled into the comforting embraces of the two women with contented grins.

Bremner, Doyle, and Ellis returned to the deck, each pushing a large trolley laden with food trays and pitchers of drinks. They brought them alongside the long table positioned farther down the deck and began to unload them.

"How many more trolleys are there?" asked Johnny.

"Five," answered Bremner, "and a few other assorted items of importance."

"I'll help, then," said Tristan. He disappeared through the door.

"Me, too," said Johnny, also running inside.

Ashton looked across at Sather and Dublin. "Darren, Devon, would you mind helping me with the other "items of importance?"" The two men nodded and followed him into the house.

"My, my," said Bremner. "Mr. Ashton is doing half my job for me."

Vivia grinned at him over Blake's shoulder. "He's an elitist, yes, but he's never been the type to let people do everything for him. He has to get his hands dirty somehow or he's not happy."

"Well, it's his house. He can do whatever he likes." Bremner continued with his work.

A few minutes later, the table was set with an array of various foods, drinks, plates, and cups. A modest stack of brightly wrapped presents also inhabited the middle of the table. Blake's eyes grew wide at the sight of it all.

"All for me?" the small boy asked.

"Yes, little one," responded Vivia, giving him a squeeze. "It's all for you. Happy birthday." The boy grinned, still in awe, and made himself more comfortable in Vivia's arms.

The family gathered around the table and began to eat dinner. The meal was modest since everyone wanted to save room for the main event: the cake. Before that, though, they paused for the opening of the presents.

There were three packages on the table, all wrapped in bright paper. Blake stared at them in wonder. He reached tentatively for the box on top and pulled it closer to him. He glanced toward the other children for direction. There were no birthday parties in his home country of Afghanistan. This was his first wrapped birthday present.

"It's okay," said Tally. "Just tear off the paper and see what's inside."

Blake nodded and clenched his fingers against the side of the box, crumpling the paper in his hand. A smile spread across his lips at the sound of the shredding of the wrapping and he quickly got into the emotion of the moment. He tore into the remaining paper, ripping it from the box to reveal what was within.

It was a box containing a book: an introduction to Hebrew. Although still professing to be Muslim, Blake had expressed an interest in learning more about the beliefs - and its language - of the rest of his family which was Judaism and Hebrew. The title of the book was written in English which Blake was still learning. He slowly read the cover and then looked up at Ashton with an enormous grin.

"Thank you, daddy," he said gratefully.

"You're welcome, Blake," Ashton replied with his own smile.

Blake opened the book and began to leaf through its pages, scanning them with interest. Tristan, sitting next to him, leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You can do that later, buddy. You've got other presents to open."

"Now?" Blake's eyes were wide again.

"Yeah," said Tristan. "It's just as fun for us to see what you've got as it is for you." He patted the boy's back and added, "It's okay. Go ahead."

Blake looked at the rest of the stack as if it were an insurmountable obstacle. "Okay," he gulped, reaching for the next one.

This package was larger than the last had been. More paper crackled under Blake's fingers as he tore it from the box. Beneath the bright blue paper was a simple brown box. Across from him, Marc and Tally became visibly excited at the sight of it. Blake slowly lifted the lid. His eyes widened again and his jaw dropped. After a moment of silent staring, he began to laugh.

"Is wonderful," he proclaimed, lifting the item out of the box for all to see.

It was a gold and brown plush toy fish about thirty centimeters long. Instead of an open mouth, it had a huge smile. Sewn along its long body in thick maroon thread, first in Pashto and again in English, was a message to Blake.

To our new brother, "Fish." Welcome to your new home. We love you.

Tally and Marc

The fish was passed around the table for all to see. Since everyone was aware of Blake's nickname of _keb_ , Pashto for fish, they all had a good chuckle about the reference.

"This is incredible. How did you kids find a place to make it?" asked Stas as he admired the fish.

"Sean found someone for us," exclaimed Marc, beaming at the butler.

"Yeah," agreed Tally. "Marc had the idea for it all and asked me how we could get it made in secret for Blake's birthday. I suggested Sean. As always, he came through for us."

Bremner, in one of his rare moments sitting with the family, blushed at the compliment. "It was a treat being allowed to be involved in part of the young man's first birthday celebration. I was honored to have been asked."

Blake stood while Bremner was speaking and made his way to the butler, wrapping his arms around the man. Bremner patted the boy's head gently and smiled at him. Tally and Marc appeared next to him and did the same, embracing Bremner happily.

"You three make an old man happy," said Bremner.

"And you make me happy," replied Blake, hugging Tally and Marc, as well. "Thank you."

"What's next, Blake?" asked Alyssa, referring to the final package on the table.

Blake returned to his chair and reached for the last slender box. He began to unwrap it. The package flexed in his grasp. His brow furrowed in confusion at this. It was a slim plastic red folder. Blake looked around the table, but saw only stares in return. He opened the folder and reached inside. He pulled out a stack of papers and a passport. He opened the passport.

"Blake Caleb Ashton," he read slowly. His eyes flicked over to Ashton questioningly. Ashton nodded.

"Keep reading," said the Minoan.

Blake set the passport aside and picked up the other papers. He stared at the foreign lettering for a few moments as he tried to make sense of it. He then began to slowly read parts of it aloud, sometimes stumbling over the words.

"Order of adoption. Effective July 3, 2005, the child known as Balach Gulam Bache-Gharsanay Safayi shall be under the sole custody of David Aaron Ashton of 197 Morningstar Lane, Stirling Lines HR4 7DD. The child's name henceforth is legally changed to Blake Caleb Ashton."

Blake voice broke. He dropped the papers to the table and stared at Ashton. Tears began to drop from his dark brown eyes.

"I'm your real son now? You're my real daddy now?"

"Yes, Blake," replied Ashton, smiling broadly. "Happy birthday."

A happy sob ebbed from Blake' throat as he ran around the table to Ashton's chair. The boy wrapped himself around his new father and buried his head in the man's shoulder.

"This is best day ever," he wept. Ashton slowly stroked the boy's long hair as he cried. When Blake finally looked up, he saw that there was not a dry eye at the table.

"Are you ready for cake now?" asked Ashton. Blake nodded. "Sean, would you, please?

"Yes, sir," acknowledged the butler, standing. He returned moments later with a large cake beset with eleven candles. With great ceremony, he lit them while Blake returned to his seat.

Everyone at the table stood and sang "Happy Birthday" to Blake. The boy blushed and smiled. When the song ended and with a little prompting from Tristan, he took a deep breath and blew. All of the candles were extinguished in one attempt. The guests applauded his achievement. Blake smiled again.

"What did you wish for?" asked Marc.

"You know he can't tell us that," said Tally. "If he does, it won't come true."

"Is okay," answered Blake with a smile. "I can tell. I wish for nothing. I already have it. A real family."

xxxxxxxxxx

11 June 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"What have we got here, Robyn? It's not like you to be here on a Saturday evening." Alan Weatheral paced the aisles of work stations of the tactical operations center, his ever present cup of coffee in hand.

"I just want to check on the reports from the surveillance teams we have out in the field at the moment, Alan," replied Robyn Radway.

"How many do you have out right now?"

Radway looked at him with a smirk. "Are you really telling me the operations sergeant major doesn't know how many surveillance teams are operational at any time?"

Weatheral grinned. "You've had them quite busy over the past year looking for Farid and his men. It's always changing. I could check the mission logs or I could ask you. The latter is much easier."

"True," she agreed. "And, before you ask, I came here to check on them because it would save me a trip if I found anything interesting. I knew the people in the TOC would want to know about it. I didn't expect to find you here, though."

Weatheral shrugged. "Call it a benefit of being divorced. I have nothing to keep me tied up at home so I spend my time here. It's more productive than watching the paint peel in my house."

Radway tapped keys on one of the TOC's computers as she spoke. "You're starting to sound like our commander. If he didn't have those three adopted children and his nephew under his care, he'd be here, also. It's kind of sad, actually."

"Could be worse," said Weatheral. "We could be wasting our time at singles bars getting piss drunk and trying to chat up the ladies."

Radway smiled while still looking at her monitor. "Well, there is that. Anyway, as you know, since we raided Farid's farmhouse in Barrow last year, we haven't had a sighting of him at all. We noticed he was doing some construction there to store his explosive devices and presumably to house some of the men he was bringing into the country. I figured he would be doing the same thing at whatever location he chose next. I also thought he would choose to do everything completely above board, building permits and the like, so as not to raise any red flags. I've been sending out teams out to check almost every new building site I found."

"Good Lord, no wonder they've been so busy lately."

"Exactly, and also why they've turned up nothing. I finally realized I was looking in the wrong places."

"But you just said you were looking everywhere in the country," said Weatheral.

"Almost," reminded Radway. "I wasn't checking sites in the metropolitan area of London. I didn't think Farid would dare to come closer to the area he planned as his target site. Well, now I think I was wrong. I now have the teams checking buildings sites in London and the surrounding areas."

"And?"

"That's why I'm here. They've only been out for a few days. Their first reports should be in now. Give me a little time and I'll let you know what they've found."

"Alright," said Weatheral, sipping his coffee. "Happy reading."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 February 1929

Chinatown, Chicago, Illinois

Won Kow Chinese Restaurant

"Okay, Smarty, tell me what you know about this Canadian bastard that's been prowling around my city for the past week."

Alphonse Capone was ensconced in a seat in the far northwest corner of his favorite restaurant, a scowl on his face. At the top of the tall staircase that led to the restaurant, six of his bodyguards stood in the hallway. Capone picked at his food. His usual appetite was greatly diminished today. He didn't like people poking around in his business affairs, least of all foreigners.

Across from Capone, Antonio "Smarty" Wiseman sat with a similarly lightly touched plate of fried rice. The young enforcer – he was only thirty-one – had the benefit of being relatively unknown by the authorities despite the nine brutal slayings to his personal credit. On top of being one of Capone's top tough guys, he also had a way of knowing the events in the town almost naturally. Capone had known the man for three years and still had not figured out anyone in his organization of informants. All the better for keeping a low profile with the Feds.

The dark-haired man looked silently at his boss for a moment, choosing his words. Even he wouldn't risk angering the great Al Capone.

"I haven't been able to come up with much on him, Boss," he said softly. "He's been sighted in several locations around the city, but almost always as he's travelling. We haven't got a good handle on what he's doing. We know he's been spending time at the docks and the northern parts of the city. We've seen him elsewhere, too, but practically no one is saying what he's been doing other than just looking around. Personally, I think he's got his own network of people in the city feeding him information and he's been meeting with them. He's done a good job of keeping their identities unknown, as well."

"So, you've got shit is what you're telling me?" summarized Capone, finally taking a mouthful from his plate.

"No, not entirely," assured Wiseman. "He's also appeared in a few of the speakeasies around town. How he knew where they were, we don't know, but he did. The guys in them say all he did was, somehow, give the correct password to get into them and then just sat and had a drink or two and left. Never asked anyone any questions, just drank quietly, and left. He always ordered the best whiskey they had, though, the guys did say that much. And he tipped well. That's it."

"Hmm," grunted Capone, chewing another bite of food. "The best, you say, like the Canadian stuff we get from him?"

"Yeah, usually that. He almost never ordered our local hooch."

Capone scowled again. "He's checking the quality of the imports is what he's doing, besides whatever other shit he's up to. He knows we're cutting it."

Wiseman nodded. "That's a good assumption."

Capone set down his fork and checked his watch. "He's meeting me at my house in forty minutes. I need to go. One thing's for sure. The bastard wants money. Those two shipments I stiffed him on weren't cheap."

"Why not just pay him, Boss?" asked Wiseman. "He's giving you a good product so what's the problem?"

"The problem, Smarty, is I don't have control of the production. I'm completely dependent on his schedules and how much he wants to send. Yeah, he gives me good whiskey, but I want more than that. If I could just get the formula and production methods down, I won't need him at all. I've got a chemist on it. He should have the secret down for me soon. After that, we can take him out and not have to worry about him anymore."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 February 1929

7244 South Prairie Avenue

Capone Residence

Ashton was ten minutes early. He exited the cab nonchalantly and paid the driver, giving him a handsome tip in thanks. He walked up the stairs to the front door and knocked. He did not have to wait long. A slender man in a dark suit answered his call after only a few seconds.

"Mr. Ashton?" he asked. The man sounded as if such pleasantries as mister were not a common part of his vocabulary.

"Yes," Ashton confirmed.

"Come in, please. Mr. Capone is expecting you."

He stepped aside, allowing Ashton to enter, and offered to take his hat and coat. Ashton nodded his thanks and gave them to him. He gave no indication to the man of the electric pulsing in his head telling him of an Immortal's presence in the house.

"Do you have any weapons on you, sir?" the man queried. "Mr. Capone prefers this meeting to take place with all parties unarmed."

"Oh?" responded Ashton. "He did not say so." He reached slowly inside his suit and withdrew a .45 caliber automatic pistol. Handing it carefully to the dark-haired man, he advised, "Be gentle with it, please. There is a round in the chamber."

"Yes, sir. I'll return it when you leave."

"Thank you. Please show me the way."

"Follow me, sir."

The man led him down a narrow hallway to a closed door. He knocked twice and waited.

"Come in," came a voice from behind the door.

The man twisted the knob and pushed the door open. He stepped through and to the side to allow Ashton access to the room.

"Mr. Ashton, Boss," he said.

"Thanks, Pauly," replied Capone. "Please take care of his things and join us."

"Yes, sir." Pauly stepped behind Ashton and withdrew from the room.

Capone stood from behind a desk and walked around it to greet his guest. Extending his right hand to Ashton, he took a smoldering cigar from his lips with his left.

"Welcome, Mr. Ashton," he greeted with a jowly grin, shaking the Minoan's hand. "May I offer you a cigar?"

"Yes, please," agreed Ashton, moving toward the chair Capone indicated. He scanned the room, making obvious his notice of the other three men sitting near the window. An empty chair sat to their right. Ashton nodded his greetings to them. "Gentlemen," he said.

"Sir," they said in unison.

"Ah, yes," Capone stated, as if he had forgotten the men were there. "These are three of my associates. That's Tony Wiseman, an advisor of mine." Capone pointed to the man on the far left. "The guy in the center is Max Devlin, one of my accountants and the guy on the right is Carlton Pollack, a shipping consultant of mine."

 _And an Immortal,_ Ashton thought, regarding the red-haired man briefly. _This must be the man Rick mentioned._

Capone opened a box humidor in front of Ashton. The Minoan selected a cigar from it. Setting the box back on his desk, he offered a cutter and lighter to his guest. Ashton went through the cutting and lighting ritual, placing the sliced end of the cigar in a nearby standing ashtray. Again nodding his thanks, he took a puff and sat in the chair he had been offered earlier. He placed the lighter on Capone's desk. Capone returned to the chair behind his desk and eased his bulk into it.

"So, Mr. Ashton, let's cut the bullshit. We're both no-nonsense men. What brings you here? It's more than just the money I owe you. Has to be. Something else is on your mind. Otherwise, you'd have just sent one of your lackeys here, not come all this way yourself."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Capone. And, since we're no-nonsense men, let's drop the formality, if we may." Ashton waited.

Capone smiled. "That's fine with me, David. We can be open with each other."

"Thank you, Al," said Ashton, crossing an ankle over his knee. Behind him, Pauly reentered the room and sat with the other three men.

"The reason I'm here is not only to demand the money you owe me, which is considerable, but to tell you about my plans for us both to make even more money in the future."

Capone's eyes widened. He removed his cigar from his teeth again. "You've got my attention now, David. Keep talking."

"Currently, all of my shipments to you are coming overland through Wisconsin and Illinois to get to you. That's a lot of time, expense, and risk for our product. The longer it takes to get from me to you, the more of a chance some Fed or Statie can catch it along the way and confiscate it. Are you with me?"

Capone grunted and nodded. Ashton continued.

"I propose to start sending my shipments primarily by boat via Lake Michigan and unloading it at the docks. I've already got a warehouse where it can be stored and disbursed."

"Yeah," said Capone. "I know about the warehouse. You can't buy such a thing in the city without me knowing about it. I wondered why you got it. So that's the reason."

"Exactly. Shipping by boat will greatly reduce the time and expense of shipment and therefore reduce the risk to us both. I can offer it to you at a lower price and your profit on it can go up accordingly."

Capone's face lit up. "I could sweeten the deal even more for you. I have my own crews on those docks. They could provide security and manpower for receiving and handling of the merchandise when it arrives."

Ashton took another puff of his cigar and shook his head. "No offense intended, Al, but I would like to keep that in house for now. I have already hired my own people for all of those services. We can discuss alternatives to that later on, perhaps, but not in the beginning."

Ashton nursed his cigar for another moment while Capone mulled over his words. "I can't say I particularly like that, David. I own those docks, whether anyone really knows it or not. I don't like the idea of other people, even you, playing their own game there."

Ashton grinned at the mob boss. "Then let me sweeten the deal for you. Shipments by boat will enable me to send even more product to you then I have in the past. Each boat will have three times what each convoy carried. And I can have at least one, even two or three, boats arriving each week. You'll be awash in the stuff. It's your most preferred product at your establishments. With my reduced prices and your increased quantities, you'll be able to drop your own prices and still make an enormous profit."

Capone sat back in his chair. He puffed on his cigar silently for a while, sending plumes of thick smoke into the air. After a while, he leaned forward again.

"This is all very interesting, David. You said something earlier, though. What did you mean by shipping primarily by the lake?"

Ashton grinned again. "The authorities know I'm shipping overland already. They know I'm out there; they just can't always find my trucks. I plan to keep sending those overland convoys just as before. If I did otherwise, they might start looking elsewhere."

"A diversion, eh? Very smart." Capone puffed again. "Very smart," he repeated. "When do you propose to start these new shipments?"

"A month after you have paid for the product you have already received," replied Ashton. "Plus interest, of course."

Capone's eye twitched, but he said nothing. He took a long draw on his cigar. When he finally spoke, there was a menacing edge to his voice.

"Interest? Who the fuck do you think you are, David, charging me interest? I don't pay interest for shit. I could copy your formula and produce it myself. I buy from you out of professional courtesy. I could start producing my own shit tomorrow."

"Then why haven't you, Al? If you were, you wouldn't be selling my watered down stuff at your speakeasies; you'd be selling your own at full strength."

Capone's face reddened. "Talk like that is very dangerous for a man who hopes to leave this house in one piece, David. I could make you disappear with a nod of my head. This is my city."

"Such an attempt would be an unforgivable error, Al," Ashton responded calmly. His free hand rested lightly on his crossed ankle. "We can settle our differences without childish threats."

"I don't make threats, asshole," bellowed Capone, rising to his feet. "I make pro…"

The boss never finished his statement. As he stood, Tony Wiseman and Pauly also jumped to their feet. The two mobsters to the right had instantly pulled pistols from inside their suit jackets. Ashton tossed his cigar across the room into the face of Wiseman. The man cursed and slapped at the burning object as it flew his way. Pauly Stern turned his head to see what had happened to his compatriot. This gave Ashton time to pull the pant leg of his crossed ankle up, withdraw the .38 snub nosed revolver from its ankle holster, and stand. He pointed the weapon at Capone's fat face.

"Drop the weapons and kick them over here," he ordered.

The wiseguys did so without hesitation. The threat to their boss was more than enough motivation.

"Now, gentlemen," continued Ashton, still in a composed tone. "As I said, there is no need for this to degenerate any further. I fully expect we can complete our dealings in a dignified, businesslike manner. For now, however, I believe we all need time to cool off. We can continue our chat another time."

He looked over at Pauly. "Would you be so kind as to fetch my coat and other belongings? No silliness, please?"

Pauly glanced at Capone. The boss nodded and gulped. "Go ahead, Pauly. No tricks."

"Yes, sir," replied Pauly, leaving the room. He returned a moment later with Ashton's things, placing them in the chair. The .45 lay next to his hat. Pauly then returned to his own seat and stood.

Ashton stepped behind his vacated chair and retrieved the other pistol. Training it on the men, he placed the .38 back in its ankle holster. He picked up his hat, placed it on his head, and lifted his coat, flipping it across his forearm. He then backed toward the doorway.

"Until next time, gentlemen. I'll be in touch. Don't worry. I'll show myself out."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Things could have gone better," admitted Ashton, pushing his plate away.

"I'll say," grinned Alyssa, running a finger along her glass of tea. "You embarrassed Al Capone in front of Paul "The Whip" Stern, one of his hitmen and told him he owed you interest? Pretty gutsy, I must admit, but not unlike what I've heard about you. What do you think will happen now?"

"Who knows?" said Ashton with a shrug. "It's only been ninety minutes since then. I came to meet you for this late lunch afterward."

"Do you think you were followed?"

"No, but that doesn't mean someone hasn't called in my whereabouts since I got here. If so, that means your cover is possibly ruined."

Alyssa shrugged, as well. "I'm prepared for that. Bobby is perfectly capable of running all of this if I have to leave."

"You think so?"

"I know so," she said confidently. "He's a sharp kid. He'll do well."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. At least, not yet."

"What are your plans now?"

Ashton sighed. " _Shabbat_ is coming and sundown is in a few hours. I'm going back to my hotel and laying low until Monday at a minimum. Then I'll reach out to Capone and see if he's calmed down and is willing to negotiate. If not, well, I'll have to do something else."

"And what is that?"

"Oh, my dear, Alyssa, I can't show all of my cards yet, can I?"

"You're not going to kill him, are you?"

"Oh, no, that would make a martyr of him. I have something else in mind."

"Ooh, I almost hope he doesn't pay up just so I can see what you're planning."

Ashton smiled. "Someone like Capone needs to be embarrassed on a national scale. Just think on that."

"Mind if I tag along with you for _Shabbat_? I've got nothing planned for the weekend."

"Not at all. Come along. We can enjoy the day of rest and, when it's over, talk about what comes next."

He stood and dropped some bills on the table. Offering his arm to her, he said, "Shall we?"

They stepped out into the cold Chicago air, Ashton on the street side of the sidewalk. Alyssa chatted while he eyed the street for an approaching taxi.

"Something's wrong," he said to her, still walking.

"What?" she asked. "I don't see anything."

"It's subtle," he added. "Are you armed?" He undid a button on his jacket and took out a folded sheet of paper, flipped it open, glanced at it, and then refolded it one-handed before returning it to his inside pocket.

"Just a knife."

"If something happens, go for the inside of my left ankle. There's a revolver there."

"Okay," she acknowledged. "Where is this danger?"

"I don't see it yet, but it's out here. Just keep walking and be ready."

Alyssa's nod was almost imperceptible. She scanned the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the older Immortal sensed. She saw only the normal hustle of pedestrians on the sidewalk and automobile traffic on the street. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the sights or sounds of the city at all. So what had alerted him?

Ashton was already pushing her into a deep, brick doorway and pulling an automatic pistol from within his jacket when she saw it. Ahead of them were two men in trench coats, stern expressions on their faces. Their coats flapped open as they pulled shotguns from inside them. Ashton was pressing himself into the doorway beside her, pivoting to the side.

 _Why is he ignoring the men with shotguns?_ she wondered.

To their side, a car screeched to a halt. Ashton began firing at it immediately. Alyssa saw the passenger window explode and the face of the man behind it disintegrate under the impact of a .45 caliber bullet. The rear door opened. A hard-faced man with a Thompson submachine gun swiveled and placed a foot on the pavement. Ashton fired twice, catching the man in the chest before he could fire or even stand. He crumpled out of the car in a heap at its side.

"The gun," shouted Ashton over the sound of his own firing.

Alyssa dropped to a knee, her hands reaching for his left ankle. Her shaking fingers pulled the leg of his trousers up to reveal the revolver. Above her, the sound of Ashton's pistol continued to thunder in her ears. The screams of terrified pedestrians added to the cacophony. In her peripheral vision, she saw him begin to shoot one-handed as his free hand dug into a pocket of his jacket.

She stood, the revolver in her hands, as the slide of Ashton's pistol slammed back on an empty chamber. His hand was already out of his pocket. It held another magazine. The thumb of his right hand pressed the magazine release of the pistol as his left brought the magazine up into the magazine well. He then hit the slide release with his thumb and continued firing. He reached for another magazine at the same time.

"Move," he said. "Into the store. Stay low."

Alyssa turned and rushed into the small general store. As she did, she caught a brief glimpse of the attacking vehicle's driver slumped against the steering wheel, his own weapon still held limply in his hand. Ashton was right behind her. As they entered the store, he dove against her, pushing her to the floor. Thompsons erupted furiously to their rear, sending bullets howling over their heads. Alyssa screamed as she crawled along the floor.

She reached a heavy oak counter and took cover behind it. She screamed again. Two other voices joined her. The husband and wife shopkeepers were huddled there with her. She looked behind her, searching for Ashton. He was on the other side of the shop, laying behind a shelf laden with goods.

A shotgun boomed in the doorway, its blast echoing louder in the confines of the shop. Ashton returned fire with his pistol but the men had already stepped back out of sight. Alyssa rose from cover and propped her hands on the countertop. One of the shotgun men swung around again, his weapon level at his hip. She fired twice. The first round struck him in the chest, stunning him. The second took him in the forehead. Like a puppet with cut strings, he tumbled to the floor, his shotgun clattering on the hardwood.

"Goddamn," she heard the other man curse as he swung around the doorway. His shotgun was to his shoulder. He fired blindly in her direction and ducked back. Pellets tore into the counter in front of her and ripped fiercely into her right shoulder. Alyssa screamed again and dropped back down.

Tommy guns fired through the windows of the shop, shattering glass and splintering cabinets apart. Ashton responded with his pistol.

"Out the back," he shouted to Alyssa. "Keep moving." He changed magazines and continued to fire to cover her withdrawal.

Alyssa glanced at the shopkeepers. "So sorry," she said and ran for the back door in a crouch, holding her bleeding shoulder with her free hand.

She was in the storage area of the shop. It was easily the size of the general store once again, a small warehouse. Seconds later, Ashton barreled through the door after her. A shard of glass had cut his cheek and a bullet had caught his left earlobe as he had run, but he was otherwise unscathed. The wounds were already sizzling with electricity as they sealed themselves. The Minoan surveyed their new surroundings and nodded.

"This will do," he said. "Knives," he said, returning his pistol to its holster. "Keep the damage to a minimum." He eyed her for a second. "Can you do this?"

Alyssa nodded and slipped the revolver into a pocket of her overcoat. "Yes," she affirmed.

"Good." He slipped behind a stack of boxes and disappeared. Alyssa took refuge, as well.

They only had to wait for a moment before men came storming into the room. There were four of them. Three of them held Thompsons and one grasped a shotgun. From her hiding place in the darkness, Alyssa could clearly make out the silhouette of Paul "The Whip" Stern.

"Get the lights," Stern commanded one of the men. A switch was flipped and light flooded the room. Alyssa could see Stern grinning.

"Mr. Capone sends his regards, Ashton," he shouted to the room. "He says he refuses your offer." To punctuate his statement, Stern fired a sweeping burst across the stacks of boxes.

"Find 'em," said Stern as he set off on his own course through the storage room. The others nodded and moved out separately, their weapons held out and ready.

Alyssa stepped silently through the rows of boxes until she came to a shadowy corner. She eased herself between some of the merchandise and waited, her knife at her side. As she controlled her breathing, she heard, or thought she heard, the muffled gasp of one of the men. She grinned. Unless she was imagining things, Ashton had claimed a victim already.

Footsteps alerted her of the approach of one of the stalking men. Alyssa glanced at the ravaged shoulder of her jacket. The wound beneath it would not have healed completely yet, but it would have stopped bleeding. She knew, though, the man was following the blood droplets she had left in her wake.

 _Good. Let him come._

She saw him a few meters away, staring dumbfoundingly at the point where the blood trail ended. It was the shotgun man from the doorway she had encountered earlier. He looked about for some sign of where she may have gone. Finally, making a decision, he continued down the path toward where she was hidden.

His steps grew more cautious as he neared the darker part of the row. He placed his feet with care, heel toe, very quietly, his shotgun held midway between hip and shoulder. Alyssa stepped back between the stacked boxes, further into the darkness. A moment later, the muzzle of the levelled shotgun was visible as the man walked by. Alyssa waited a heartbeat more. Then she struck.

The man must have sensed her movement. He pivoted toward her. However, in the confines of the row of boxes, the long barrel of the shotgun prevented him from bringing it to bear. It collided with a stack of boxes next to her. With both of his hands on the weapon, he was unable to do anything to prevent her attack. In fact, his movement had caused him to be more open to it. The knife blade that would have driven into the side of his neck instead buried itself fully into his trachea. Alyssa twisted the blade and withdrew it before stabbing savagely between his ribs. The man coughed a spew of blood from his mouth and gagged, his body going limp.

Twisting again, she pulled the bloody knife from him. She reached out with her left hand and caught the butt of his shotgun as he fell, preventing it from announcing his death with its clattering. She knelt down slowly and placed the weapon next to the still twitching body. She checked her work. She had missed his heart and hit a lung instead. She decided he would not live more than a few seconds longer regardless. Wiping the blade on his shirt, she left him to his fate.

Long minutes passed in silence. Her own breathing and thundering heartbeats were the only sounds she heard. She tread lightly down the rows of boxes, seeking either Ashton or another one of the mobsters. After a while, she found one of them lying tucked away behind a shelf of lamps. A stab wound to his back in the kidney area and a slashed throat showed how he had left this world. Whether this was Ashton's first or second kill, she did not know. She kept walking, avoiding the pool of blood around the body. Next to his head was his Thompson, unloaded, and half disassembled.

She found another man a while later. Also with a cut throat, this one had been stabbed through the shoulder into the subclavian artery. The slash across the neck was more ragged than the first man. Alyssa presumed he must have still had some fight in him when it had happened. Either way, the result had been the same. He now lay curled in a shadowy corner soaked in his own blood with his submachine gun resting on top of him. The weapon had been unloaded and partially disassembled just like the first.

"Shit," she heard Stern curse in the row next to her. After that, there was only a brief ruffle of clothing and a gasp of air. She stepped around the corner in time to see Ashton's blade being drawn across Paul Stern's neck. The hitman, still very much alive but in too much pain and shock to fight back, looked in horror as the bloody knife withdrew from his body and he was allowed to fall. His weapon slipped from dying hands, grasped in his killer's. With monumental effort, Stern pushed himself onto his side and turned his head to look up at Ashton. He opened his mouth. No sound came out except a horrid gurgle. Ashton knelt next to him as his blood spread across the floor and took his Thompson apart. When he was done, the light behind Stern's eyes had been extinguished. Ashton stood. Alyssa nodded.

"That's all of them," she said.

"Okay," he replied. "Let's get out of here."

xxxxxxxxxx

22 February 1929

Calumet City, Illinois

They took four different cabs and a circuitous route to reach the hotel. It was just after three thirty in the afternoon when they arrived. Even then, they walked the final five blocks to their destination, scanning the streets the entire time for possible tails. When they finally arrived at Ashton's room, they were completely exhausted.

"Damn me and damn Al Capone," said Alyssa as she let herself collapse across Ashton's bed. "I've never been so scared in my life."

"Really?" asked Ashton, settling into a chair nearby. "You've been in fights before. Surely you've felt something like that before."

"Yeah, but I've never been in a gunfight before," she admitted. "Sure, I've been around guns and had them firing near me, but never at me. And I've shot guns before but I've definitely never fired them back at someone. That was a first for me."

"Well," said Ashton with a tiny grin. "You did well for your first time. You didn't hesitate when the time came and your shots were well placed."

"Thank you," she accepted, raising herself onto her elbows. "But you should have seen me when I was trying to get the damn gun out of your ankle holster. My hands were shaking like crazy."

Ashton shrugged. "I didn't notice. I was occupied."

Alyssa smiled at that. "Yeah, I guess you were." She looked around the room. "Do you have anything to eat or drink here? I'm famished."

He pointed at a table across the room. "I have a few things over there. Nothing fancy. Just some simple fare to get through _Shabbat_. There should be enough for both of us if we order some room service now, though."

Alyssa poured a glass of water and selected an apple for herself while Ashton picked up the phone and dialed room service. She listened as he placed the ordered, mentally concurring with everything he requested. He had obviously been paying attention whenever she had ordered food at restaurants and picked up on her preferences.

She set the glass and apple on an end table next to one of the other chairs and slipped off her reversible overcoat. She had reversed it before leaving the bullet-riddled general store to cover the blood stains on its front. She draped it carefully, blood stains up, across his bed for now. Looking down at the front of her dress, she sighed.

 _Not much I can do about this without stripping down completely, is there? Not that, I'm sure, he'd care one way or the other. How did he manage not to get any stains other than dust on his suit, by the way?_

As if reading her mind, Ashton pointed toward the bathroom and his dresser, indicating she could wear some of his clothes for now, if she wished. He hung up the phone.

"The food and drink will be here in a little more than an hour. You'll have plenty of time to freshen up." He checked his watch. "It should get here just before sundown."

"Good," she replied. "I'll have my snack and then get cleaned up."

She emerged from the bathroom forty-five minutes later clad in one of his dress shirts and her underthings. Her damp hair hung loose about her shoulders. She grinned as he regarded her entrance.

"So much for the Jewish injunction against women wearing men's clothes, eh?"

"Well," he said, "there were always exceptions to such things. It's not like you had a spare set of clothes in your handbag."

"Yeah, exactly, and it will take awhile for my things to dry hanging up in your bathroom like they are."

She shivered as she sat in her chair again. She rubbed her hands along her bare thighs.

"Cold?" he asked? I can get a spare blanket from the dresser."

"No, it's not that, I think. Just nerves. I'm still shaking from the shootout, is all.

"Ah," he chuckled. "Then you might need something a bit stronger than the grape juice on the table, then."

"You have something?"

"Of course," he answered. He stood and walked over to the dresser, pulling a suitcase from inside. Laying it on the bed, he opened it and pulled a bottle of brown liquid from within. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"Are you a doctor?" she asked.

"At one time. My credentials have long since expired by now, of course."

She grinned as he went back to the food table and poured a healthy amount of the whiskey into two glasses. He brought one of them to her and kept the other for himself.

"This will warm you up."

"My dear David Ashton. Are you trying to get me drunk?" Her emerald eyes flashed at him.

"I am only bringing you the glass, Alyssa. What you do after that is entirely up to you."

"Touche," she replied, and took and large gulp of the drink. "Oh, that's good."

"The best in Chicago," he said.

There was a knock at the door. Ashton set his glass down on the end table and went to answer it. He spoke briefly with the attendant, tipped the man, and wheeled in the cart, shutting the door behind him.

"Dinner is served," he said. He looked at his watch again. "It's ten minutes before sundown. I have some candles over there. Would you do the honors?"

"I'd be delighted," she responded.

"That was heavenly," Alyssa commented an hour later, pushing back her plate and leaning back in her seat. "And the whiskey was a nice touch. Thank you, David."

"My pleasure. Thank you for joining me."

"Hah! It's not like the situation gave me much of a choice now, did it?"

Ashton laughed, as well. "I guess not."

"What are your plans for the rest of the night? And the day to follow?"

"What does one always do on _Shabbat_? Relax and prepare for the week to follow."

"Relax, huh?" She stood and walked over to him, straddling herself in his lap, facing him. "Well I have an idea for part of the night, at least." She kissed him deeply on the lips.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing, young lady?" he asked when they finally parted.

"Relaxing. Blame it on the booze or the natural after effects of nerves. Whatever you want."

She leaned in to kiss him again. He did not resist her.

xxxxxxxxxx

12 June 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Mahmudiyah, Iraq

Specialist Morgan was tired but he couldn't sleep. How could he? He was strapped into a narrow seat of a Chinook helicopter with his M16 between his knees and a man tightly packed on either side of him. The entire helicopter was full of men and equipment and it was nearly pitch black. The only thing he could see was lights from the settlements below through the open back ramp and the silhouette of the crew chief strapped onto it manning an M240B machine gun.

 _Kind of like Dad in Vietnam,_ Morgan thought to himself.

His father had been a draftee during the Vietnam war and had originally been a cook during his first year of service. When he had arrived in country, however, the last thing he wanted was to spend a year in a hot country in an even hotter mess tent. He had approached his company first sergeant and asked if there was anything else he could do.

"Well," the first sergeant had responded. "Can you qualify expert with an M60?"

"First Sergeant," Private Morgan had replied, "if I can disassemble it and reassemble it, I can qualify with it."

"Alright, Morgan, then give it a try."

William "Bill" Morgan had done just that. He successfully disassembled and reassembled the weapon on his first try and then went to the range. He qualified expert minutes later. He was immediately reassigned as a gunner on a Chinook. He was so well respected by the pilots, in fact, that at times when they were away from their base they would allow him to dress in a warrant officer's flight suit and join them in the officer's club for drinks.

Specialist Morgan gripped his M16 a little tighter, thinking about how he was essentially using the same rifle his father had carried in Vietnam and flying on the same type of aircraft. Even fighting in the same kind of guerrilla war, just a different environment, only forty years later.

 _Have we learned anything in those forty years or will we make the same mistakes we did back then, I wonder? Is this my Vietnam?_

Morgan glanced out of the back again, just in time to notice an arc of red passing the helicopter a hundred meters or so away. He saw the crew chief pivot to the right. He did not fire, though. Morgan grinned.

 _And we've just taken fire. Did anyone else notice besides me and the crew chief?_

He looked about the aircraft. No one was reacting. Most of the others were staring silently at the floor, lost in their own thoughts.

 _I guess not._

Two minutes later, the helicopter was setting down onto a concrete pad. The crew chief unstrapped himself, stood, picked up his weapon, and stepped aside. Standing farther down the pad, a noncommissioned officer from Morgan's battalion stood with a red-lensed flashlight equipped with a translucent cone to direct the men. He motioned for them to exit the aircraft.

The men stood and filed out. More NCOs were waiting off to the side with coned red flashlights. They called out for the various sections to gather near them. The men divided up accordingly. They followed the red lights through the darkness, separating from each other as they went. Morgan's small section finally arrived at a GP large tent. White light could be seen from its door flap.

"Okay, guys, this is your home until further notice," announced the NCO. It was Sergeant First Class Reed. "Except inside the tents, white lights are forbidden on the FOB at night. Just like at Victory, whenever you're outdoors, except in the immediate area of the tents, be sure you're wearing your IBA (individual body armor) and ACH (Army Combat Helmet). Now get some rest and I'll come get you at 0700 and show you where to eat and where you're supposed to work."

Morgan welcomed those words and stepped into the tent with two others from his section. The layout was simple, just eight cots, four on either side and nothing else. Morgan dropped his duffle bag and rucksack next to the cot closest to the entrance and sat down, leaning his weapon against his baggage. The other two spread out and claimed empty cots as they found them.

Unclipping the clasp of his helmet, he removed it and glanced at his watch. 02:39. He set his helmet on the wood-palleted floor. He set his watch to alert him at 06:00. Pulling the velcro attachment at the front of his body armor, he slipped out of it and placed it at the head of his cot. He'd worry about a more comfortable setup later. Right now he just wanted to sleep. He undid his boots and pulled them off. Finally, the removed his outer uniform blouse and leaned back, using the body armor as a crude, if hard, pillow. He wrapped the blouse around himself and closed his eyes, forgetting even to remove his glasses. He was already asleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

Morgan was tempted to set his alarm for thirty minutes more sleep when it went off at 06:00. He immediately decided against it and silenced the annoying beep of his watch when it started. With a tired sigh, he slowly sat up, setting his uniform tunic off to the side. He ran his hand over his face, surprised to find he was still wearing his glasses. He laughed softly as he swung his legs over the side of the cot, shaking his head slowly.

There was just enough light coming through the flap of the tent for him to make out his surroundings. Everyone else still seemed to be asleep so he moved quietly. He picked up his rifle and placed it on his cot. He then stood and opened his duffel bag. At the top was his shaving kit and a small towel. That would be all he needed for now, he figured. He had showered a few hours before leaving Camp Victory thinking he might not have the luxury for a while. All he wanted to do was brush his teeth and shave.

He wondered if he would need a bottle of water - like he did at Camp Buehring - for brushing his teeth and shaving. Running water was at a premium there. He didn't know if the same applied here. He had a bottle in one of the pockets of his rucksack. He could always use that. Deciding to be prepared just in case, he pulled it from the pack and set it on the cot. He then put on his blouse, armor, and helmet. He clipped his rifle to the carabiner at his shoulder and picked up his shaving kit, towel, and water bottle.

Morgan brushed the tent flap aside and stepped into the morning sunlight. He didn't know where the personal hygiene area was located but he was sure, based on the hour, he had only to look for others carrying similar items as he to find it. He looked around. Within seconds, he saw what he wanted, another soldier carrying a shaving kit and towel, wearing shower shoes (flip flops), and shuffling in a particular direction. Morgan followed him.

Twenty minutes later, Morgan returned to his tent. He had not needed the water bottle after all, he had discovered, to his surprise. Soldiers still had to refrain from leaving the water running while brushing their teeth and shaving, a strange thing for many Americans and one many of the NCOs in the latrine had to enforce, but at least running water was available. It sure beat the hell out of rinsing a razor with bottled water.

The others in the tent were awake now, if barely. Morgan was able to direct them to the latrines and save them the minor trouble he'd had. With just over half an hour to spare until the sergeant had promised to return to take them to breakfast, Morgan had some time on his hands. He set about a little bit of unpacking.

First, he took his "sensitive items" out of his duffle bag: his humidor with his precious cigars and its other accoutrements. He set them carefully under the cot. Next, he untied his sleeping bag from the bottom of his rucksack and unrolled it on his cot. He took a small pillow from inside the duffle and placed it at the bag's head. He wasn't sure how cold it might get at night here - it was only twenty or so kilometers south of Camp Victory so it wouldn't be radically different and it hadn't been too bad the night before - so he took another section of the multi-part sleep system and set it on top of the first, just in case. He paid little attention as his tentmates returned from the latrine.

His personal and work laptops were next to exit the duffle bag. Both would accompany him wherever he ended up working since there were regularly civilian websites he needed to access which his military computer could not. He had noticed folding sports chairs set up in various locations as he had walked to and from the latrine. He would have to find out where to acquire one of those. He'd had one at Fort Stewart but had left it behind due to lack of cargo space. Lastly, he withdrew his iPod from his rucksack and slipped it into the left cargo pocket of his trousers along with a set of headphones. He didn't know if he'd have downtime for music or be allowed to listen to it as he worked, but it was best to be prepared. As a last thought, he took a plastic cigar carrier from his duffle and placed three cigars inside it. He put it in his right cargo pocket along with a V-notch cutter and a butane lighter.

Putting his armor back on, he checked himself for readiness, patting his pockets as he went. Wallet, ammo, Camelbak, helmet, weapon. Ah! He reached into the duffle again and pulled out a folded-up patrol pack. Into it, he slid the two laptops and their side items. After one more personal inspection, he determined himself to be ready. Checking his watch one more time, he saw that he had three minutes until the sergeant was to arrive. He stepped outside to wait. The others joined him soon after.

Sergeant Reed was punctual. He appeared exactly at 07:00. He grinned at the sight of the three new arrivals waiting for him.

"Good morning, guys. Welcome to FOB Saint Michael."

"Good morning, Sergeant," the trio responded.

"Let's start off the right way. Let's have breakfast and then I'll show you where each of you will be working in the S3 (operations) section. It's chaotic right now 'cause we're right in the middle of the handover with the Tenth Mountain Division, but you'll get used to that real fast. A word of caution, though. Unlike Camp Victory, this is a no salute zone. No sniper checks, please."

The three specialists nodded and followed the sergeant to the mess building. It was nothing fancy, completely unlike the building at Victory. It was a small wooden structure surrounded and covered by sandbags. There was a weapons clearing barrel next to the entryway. Each of the specialists, though they had no magazines in their weapons, inserted their weapons in the barrel, pulled the charging handle back, and pulled the trigger to prove their weapons were safe. They then proceeded inside.

The battalion cooks had been busy preparing an assortment of foods for breakfast. Morgan selected scrambled eggs, french toast sticks, and cold cereal for himself. He set his tray on a table with the others, got some juice and milk, and sat down to his meal. He listened as Reed explained the situation in their new location.

The battalion was going to be responsible for FOBs in three cities: Mahmudiyah, Lutafiyah, and Yusafiyah. Enemy activity in all three areas was intense. Civilian opinion of U.S. troops was very low. Lieutenant Colonel Rey had plans to change that over time, but it would take a lot of work from the men to do so. He would implement his plan as soon as the battalion officially took over operations from the Tenth Mountain Division in a few days.

Morgan listened as the plan was explained in general terms. It sounded feasible. He had faith in Colonel Rey, as well. The situation here seemed like little more than an exaggerated form of what he did on a daily basis anyway. Take an armed force, implement a plan to keep the peace within a crime-ridden city, and keep the politicians happy at the same time. Only this time, his armed force had tanks and M4s instead of pistols and police cars.

Their meal finished, the four men stood and deposited their paper trays in a nearby garbage bin. Several boxes of MREs (meals ready-to-eat) were stationed near the exit. Sergeant Reed and the two others each rummaged through the boxes and selected one for their lunch. While they did that, Morgan, who eschewed the high-calorie meals unless he had no other choice, stepped aside, going back to the serving line, and slipped a few pieces of fruit into his cargo pocket. He then followed Sergeant Reed and the others outside.

The operations center was located inside an abandoned cinder block building that had once been used as a site for slaughtering and packaging chickens. As a result, the building had been dubbed by all as "the chicken factory." The building still bore the remnants of third-world electrical wiring practices. Live wires ran along the ceilings and walls, exposed for all to see. Sometimes the insulation on the wires was even exposed. Morgan knew little about electrical installation, but he was sure what he saw was substandard. He tried to suppress a shudder as he walked along the corridor of the second floor.

Sergeant Reed directed Morgan to a side room first. "You'll be working with Captain Bunt," he said, before walking off with the other two men.

Morgan stepped into the dim room to be greeted by the smiling faces of two men. Captain Brent Bunt, the assistant operations officer, a blond man slightly shorter than Morgan and about fifteen kilograms heavier, sat at a laptop computer. Behind him stood Captain Matt Barrett, the battalion intelligence officer, a slender man, also blond, with an ever present smile. Barrett spoke first.

"Dan, it's good to see you," he said, extending his hand.

"Thank you, sir," replied Morgan, shaking his hand.

"Yeah," said Bunt, also shaking Morgan's hand. "We've got a lot going on here with this transition and your input will be appreciated."

Morgan grinned at that comment. Contrary to his rank, back at Fort Stewart and even while he was still in the S1 section, Captains Bunt and Barrett had often run concepts by Morgan during the planning phase of operations as a "reality check." Part of this, Morgan knew, stemmed from the fact that Morgan and Bunt had attended the same college many years before. The other was simply for his mental acuity. Morgan had once been an officer candidate himself but had abandoned the program. Both officers were also aware of this, as were many in the battalion, and, along with the fact he had been in the battalion for over ten years, tended to grant him higher responsibilities than was normal for a specialist. They were rarely disappointed.

"Put your stuff over there, Dan," said Bunt, gesturing to an empty area next to him.

Morgan placed his patrol pack on the table and emptied his cargo pockets of their contents. On seeing the cigar tools, Barrett grinned.

"Too early for a cigar, Dan?"

Morgan laughed. "There's no such thing, sir."

"Then I have one for you." Barrett went to a cube refrigerator and removed a plastic bag from it. Inside were four cigars. He took two from it and held them up proudly. "I've been saving these since I got here. We can smoke them on the roof."

Morgan glanced at Captain Bunt. The officer nodded.

"Go ahead. We can work on our stuff when you get back."

Morgan nodded his thanks, picked up his cutter and lighter, and followed Captain Barrett out the door. Morgan walked up the narrow staircase behind the officer, checking his footing and examining the cigar as he went. The cigar was a maduro, dark in color and about twelve centimeters long. The wrapper on the end said Cohiba. Morgan wondered if this was the Dominican or Cuban variety. He had read that the Dominican Cohibas were superior to their Cuban counterparts and he had tried the Dominican type in the past. He had never had a Cuban cigar, of course, but he figured he might determine that when he lit it.

They stepped into the morning sunlight. It was already very warm, but not yet overpowering; not for people from Georgia anyway. Morgan snipped the end of his cigar and handed the cutter to Captain Barrett. He then snapped his lighter into wakefulness, slowly turning the end of the cigar until it was fully lit. He then gave the lighter to the captain and accepted the return of the cutter. Barrett lit his cigar, not quite as skillfully, but just as joyfully, and gave back the lighter. He grinned and waved a hand across the FOB behind him.

"So, what do you think of FOB Saint Michael?" he asked.

Morgan looked over Barrett's shoulder as a puff of smoke left his mouth. He saw a vast expanse of what looked to him like broken down third-world slums and old army tents. Civilians, they looked like Americans, in hard hats, were scurrying among the ruins doing who knew what. A bulldozer sat off to the side, unmanned. Morgan shook his head.

"I haven't seen much of it, but what I see looks like an absolute pit. Even this building gives me shivers when I look at the wiring along the walls."

Barrett smiled again. "Yeah, it wasn't much when the Marines first took it over a few years ago. It's been slowly improving ever since. Those guys out there," he indicated the civilians, "are KBR (Kellogg-Brown and Root) contractors. They're clearing the garbage away and making it ready for new living areas for us. In a few weeks, you won't recognize it. They're also the ones responsible for all the sanitation, pest control, and air conditioning around here. They're quite important to us."

"And get paid well, I'm sure," added Morgan, taking another pull on his cigar. It was a Cuban, he decided, and definitely inferior to the Dominican versions he had smoked previously. It wasn't bad, not in the least, just not as good as the Dominicans.

"Oh, yeah," laughed Barrett. "They don't get the same benefits we do so it's made up in additional pay. A lot of it."

"And what about the unit that's already here? What do you think of them?"

"Tenth Mountain? Typical regular Army guys, mostly. They're ops officer, Captain Cassio, seems alright. He's a bit different than the rest of them."

"Cassio?" asked Morgan. "That name sounds familiar. He wouldn't happen to be a high-strung Italian guy named John, would he?"

Barrett laughed again. "Not so high-strung, but you got the name right. Why? Do you know him?"

"If it's who I think it is, I think I went to college with him. He was an ass back then. Maybe real life calmed him down a bit."

"Maybe. In the last three days, he's been real good about helping us get an idea about the situation here and get prepped for the transition. He's even given us some off-the-record thoughts about how we can change our operations once we take over in order to get a better relationship with the civilian population. It's very much in line with what Colonel Rey wants so I think the boss will listen to his thoughts. He might even incorporate a few of his ideas into his plan. Who knows?"

Morgan tapped his cigar lightly as he considered the captain's words. "Sergeant Reed gave us a brief rundown of the colonel's plan. What did Captain Cassio suggest that would be in line with it?"

Barrett smirked to himself. Even given his professed historical dislike for Cassio, Morgan could not bring himself to disrespect the officer by simply calling him by his last name.

 _The discipline and training of North Georgia College cadets sure does run deep even all these years later._

"Like I said," continued Barrett, "he was talking off the record to us, giving us his private thoughts. He has always disagreed with his battalion's, in fact, his brigade's, policy of rough handedness with the local population. Arresting local politicians and other leaders in retribution for insurgent attacks without evidence, for example, he has stated as one of the reasons for their extreme dislike of our presence here. Bulldozing homes and mosques in a block of the city where an attack took place is another practice he believes should end. Maybe replace it with destroying only the building where insurgents were known to congregate, he says."

Morgan nodded. "That's a bit better. Maybe actually talk to the politicians and leaders rather than arrest them?"

Barrett chuckled. "That's the colonel's strong point, not mine."

"Same here," said Morgan with a grin. He patted his M16. "I'm better with this when it comes to negotiation tactics. Everyone speaks 5.56, after all."

Barrett guffawed. "That's a good one. I'm going to use it myself in the future."

"Go ahead. I don't have a patent on it." Tapping his cigar again, Morgan surveyed the FOB once more, his blue eyes scanning the desolate brown landscape. "The next week or so is going to be an absolute organized clusterfuck, I'd imagine. What do you see happening?"

Barrett took a long draw on his own cigar before answering. "The official answer is we're going to do our left seat / right seat transition and than take the reins from Tenth Mountain. They'll begin clearing out once we start the right seat operations and be pretty much gone by the time the transfer of authority happens but, yeah, it's going to be a busy time for us. We'll have a lot of obstacles to overcome. Most of the time, I think, we'll just have to keep our mouths shut about how we're going to do things differently until they're gone."

"That will be hard for most of the guys."

"They'll manage. It's only a week. If they could handle six months of putting up with the Regular Army's bullshit during train-up, they can handle seven days of playing nice with Tenth Mountain."

"Let's hope so. We're going to have enough trouble from what's outside these walls," said Morgan, pointing out to indicate the city beyond them. "We certainly don't need anymore tensions developing in here."


	31. Tonight In the Moonlight

"I'll be carried to the new jail tomorrow  
Leavin' my poor darlin' alone  
With the cold prison bars all around me  
And my head on a pillow of stone."

"Prisoner's Song" - Guy Massey

17 June 2005

Enfield, England

The morning was still young. It was not even four o'clock yet. Charles Steyn sat on the edge of his bed, the bedclothes thrown aside in frustration. He had slept badly. The snatches of sleep he had been able to steal during the night had been plagued with dreams of his past lives, the horrors of over a century.

What was it, he wondered, that bothered him so? Hadn't he always tried to advance the cause of the white race? To do what was best for it? Promote its freedom and prosperity in South Africa and elsewhere? Why would he be cursed with nightmares in recompense for his efforts?

Shaking his head, Steyn stood up, his back popping loudly in the silence of the room. _Almost as loudly as the bolt of the British rifle slamming its bullet into the chamber just before I was shot in the back at Laing's Nek,_ he thought as he walked across to the small table near the window. He poured a glass of whiskey and sipped it slowly, his thoughts running pell mell through his mind unbidden.

His first death at Laing's Nek during the First Boer War, the confusion of his resurrection, the joy of immortality and the slaughter of British soldiers years later during the Second Boer War. He glanced back at the British Officers Levee Sword leaning against the head of the bed, a trophy from that war and the weapon he used in battles with other Immortals to this day. How many lives, mortal and Immortal, had it claimed since the day he had claimed it as his own?

Since the twentieth century had begun, if he could not find a good war to keep himself occupied, Steyn had drifted from one cause to the next. It was always in pursuit of his ultimate goal of white rights, of course. To his annoyance, reaching that goal seemed to be getting more difficult over time, not less. Even well meaning organizations, the National Socialists of Germany and the Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging (Afrikaner Resistance Movement) of South Africa, never seemed to truly make any lasting headway. True, the Germans had left a mark in the nineteen forties that was remembered to this day, but the cause of Hitler and his followers had been so thoroughly renounced by the world that any advances had been pushed back.

Now he found himself working under the employ of a bunch of Arabs against the British. Sure, the British were to be hated for their own sake, but at least they were - mostly - white. Steyn knew Aadam Farid was aware of his biases. He had to; they had known each other since the Balkan campaigns of World War Two. Farid tolerated them due to his skills in other areas. Steyn did the same regarding Farid, in fact. Truth be told, Farid may as well have been white, in Steyn's opinion, given his willingness to kill them, or anyone actually, who stood in the way of his chosen aims. If only the man would have a drink with him then Steyn would view him as a full brother in arms.

Shrugging, Steyn downed the whiskey in his glass and winced as it burned its way down his throat. Farid wasn't the worst Arab his had met, by far. He was far more civilized than most of them, in fact. Give him the freedom and supremacy of the white race, Steyn thought, and he'd still happily accept Farid into the fold of the ruling class. How, he wondered, would the plans of Farid's masters lead them toward that ultimate goal?

Refilling his glass, Steyn knocked back a second shot. He shook his head. He did not know the answer to that himself. He knew the money was damn good, though. For now, that would do. Hoping the liquor would help him sleep - perhaps dreamlessly - he crawled back into bed and pulled the blanket back over himself.

xxxxxxxxxx

Steyn arose just before five thirty, a little more refreshed than he had been earlier. At least there had been no dreams this time. The smell of fresh coffee wafted from down below. The staff cook was obviously busy. At least Steyn could look forward to a decent breakfast. He would have liked a bit of bacon or ham to go with it, but the presence of all the Muslims on the crew prevented that. He smirked as he dressed. Small sacrifices. For the money he and Pollack were making on this job - a cool twenty-five million pounds each, though it was half what Farid was making - he could do without pork for a while. He could do that much to satisfy whoever was bankrolling this whole venture.

He strolled into the kitchen minutes later, nodding to the cook as he headed for the one-hundred cup coffee percolator. He filled his mug and observed the fare the cook was preparing for them. Steyn grinned. The college dropout was going for a halal version of the full English breakfast today. There were halal sausages, several rashers of halal turkey bacon, six large flat mushrooms, two dozen sliced ripe tomatoes, eggs for frying, and lots of bread for toast.

"You're going all out this morning, aren't you, Jamal?" commented Steyn, sipping his coffee.

The young man smiled back at him. "The men have been working very hard these last few weeks. I thought they could do with something better than the typical light stuff I've been making for them. A good breakfast before work will do them well."

"And get their arteries nice and properly clogged up," stated Farid as he entered the kitchen.

Jamal's smile faded slowly. He then laughed when he noticed Farid's own grin and realized he was joking with him.

"Don't worry, Jamal," said Farid. "The men will more than work it off during the morning." He dispensed a small cup of coffee for himself. He preferred tea usually and only partook of coffee in minute amounts. "You do fine work yourself. Please keep it up."

"You pay me two hundred pounds per day, sir," reminded Jamal. "I should do something to earn it. I wish I could do more to help the cause."

"Just your being here to help us instead of remaining at your studies is quite the assistance, young man," stated Farid. "You have done more than earn your pay. And, if you wish to contribute more in the future, there will always be that opportunity, as well."

"Thank you, sir." Jamal smiled again, gently patting the holstered pistol on his hip as he turned back to his work.

"So, Charles, what do you think will come of today's activities?" asked Farid as he leaned against the kitchen counter.

"We'll start putting the final touches on the last storage unit today. It should be finished in two more days. Carlton will have all the space he needs for his toys then."

"Superb," grinned Farid. "He'll be glad to hear that."

"I am," announced Pollack from behind Steyn. He stepped around the Arab and ambled toward the coffee pot, mug in hand. "At the rate I'm producing the devices now, I can use all the space they provide. We can start shipping them to the volunteers any day now, in fact."

"Even better," remarked Farid. "I will arrange all of that soon, then." He thought silently for a moment. "Despite our setbacks, we're actually progressing quite well. We're still on our timeline. Excellent."

Jamal turned to face the man again, his grin even larger than before. "In that case," he said, "I have a little something to add to our breakfast to celebrate."

"Oh?" asked Farid inquisitively.

Jamal stepped over to the refrigerator and opened the door. He reached inside and withdrew a carton and another item. He held them up for the men to see.

"Ruby red grapefruits and blood orange juice," he said, smiling again. "Enough for everyone."

Farid nearly choked on his coffee as he laughed out loud. "Perfect," he replied. "This morning we shall drink the spilled blood of the infidels."

xxxxxxxxxx

27 October 1936

Naumburg, Germany

National Political Institute of Education Naumburg

The two shirtless teenagers circled each other in the ring, their gloved fists raised to their chins. The taller boy eyed his opponent warily. Despite their age and height difference, the smaller boy was fast. He was not as strong as the older boy, but he made up for it in agility as the bruises on the sixteen-year old's ribs and his bloodied lip attested. Still, the older boy's confidence did not waiver.

It was common practice for the Nationalpolitische Lehranstalt (or NAPOLA, for short) schools to pair mismatched opponents in the boxing ring. The intent was to teach them to face and, if possible, overcome adversity. Usually, it simply ended in the younger boy being pummeled. While the smaller boy had taken his share of hits during the match, he seemed little the worse for wear other then the obvious rage in his eyes and his growing fatigue.

Heinrich Karasek, the older boy, continued to circle his opponent, Johann Schultheiss, looking for an opening in his defense. He looked at the boy's eyes, listened to his breathing. Schultheiss should have been, to Karasek's thinking anyhow, much worse than he appeared. The massive cut above his right eye that Karasek had scored in the previous round had stopped bleeding by now, though blood still covered the boy's face. Through his own weariness, Karasek thought the wound was no longer visible but surely it was just covered up by the blood. There were also no visible bruises on the boy's torso and chest despite the numerous punches which had landed there earlier. Again, Karasek attributed this to his own fatigue. The boy had to be faring worse than he at this point.

"You're going down at some point, Schultheiss," Karasek muttered around his mouthguard. He threw a punch at the boy's face. It was dodged easily. "It's just a matter of time."

"Not yet, Karasek," responded Schultheiss as he continued to dance around the taller boy. "I'm not going to lose to a big oaf like you that easily. You'll have to work for it."

"Stop playing around, Schultheiss," bellowed a voice from the side of the ring. "Get in there."

" _Sheisse,"_ (Shit) breathed Schultheiss with exasperation. _As if I don't have enough trouble from Karasek, that green-eyed South African devil, Jansenn, has to get involved, too. And, to make it worse, I have to stick to the rules of boxing for this. I can't use any of the other techniques I know. I could take this dumb ox down easily otherwise. Right now, under these rules, I'm practically a toy for him to play with._

Hauptsturmführer (Captain) Hardy Jansenn watched the boys from outside the ring. True, Schultheiss had the advantage of immortality on his side, Jansenn knew, but he was up against the best boxer in the school, as well.

"Enough cursing. More boxing," Jansenn shouted.

 _Fuck it, then. I'm tired of both of you._

Gritting his teeth in anger, Schultheiss stepped forward, weaving to the side to avoid a punch to his face. He stepped aside, taking a blow aimed at his throat on the left shoulder. The force of it weakened his own attack to Karasek's open ribcage somewhat, but it still was enough to knock the boy back a step. Schultheiss followed up with an underhanded punch to Karasek's solid stomach, feeling the older boy's diaphragm compress beneath his fist. Karasek's mouth opened as his breath was stolen from him. His fists lowered as he bent from the blow, leaving him open to an uppercut to the chin. Karasek staggered backward three paces. His sweat-soaked back collided with the corner post, stopping his retreat.

Karasek raised his fists again to block the flurry of punches coming from the younger boy. He brought them up high to cover his face. This left his abdomen exposed and half a dozen rapid punches continued to rob him of breath. He slumped down further against the post. Behind him, he heard the jeers of his classmates as the smaller boy gained the advantage over him. Karasek lashed out desperately, his fist smashing into Schultheiss's jaw. The dark-haired boy's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth as he lurched sideways.

Karasek braced a leg beneath him, trying to raise himself fully. His lungs were on fire. Painfully, he stood upright. He took a step forward to face the smaller boy again. In front of him, Schultheiss spat out a wad of blood, shook his head blearily, and charged back at him with renewed fury. The smaller boy's enraged roar sounded to all like a bellowing bull. Karasek brought his fist up again, sending a straight punch toward his oncoming opponent's face. It was brushed aside by Schultheiss's gloved fist, the blow glancing off his left ear as he rushed in.

Once again, Karasek left his abdomen open to attack. He paid grievously for his error as more punches landed, forcing him to bend further. His fists slipped down, exposing him to two hard jabs to the jaw. A third punch connected directly on his nose, collapsing the cartilage beneath. Tears instantly filled the taller boy's eyes as he raised his hands to cover his face with a cry of pain.

Karasek stepped back, was stopped by the post, and helplessly suffered the punishment of several more punches to his ribs and stomach. Blood filled his mouth and throat. He opened his mouth to breathe, choking as blood flowed freely. Whether from the pain of the continued punches or lack of air, he didn't know which, Karasek's knees buckled beneath him.

Schultheiss's onslaught continued unabated. In fact, it grew in power and speed. His opponent now shorter than he, Schultheiss rained punches down onto Karasek's head with unrestrained brutality. Karasek's fists fell away from his face as gloved fists crashed into him, knocking his head this way and that. The older boy's wiry muscled body wavered, fighting for balance. Three underhanded punches to the chest and a fourth to the jaw, all accompanied by infuriated screams, almost like a Japanese _kiai_ shout, destroyed the last hope for that. A final downward right punch to the jaw sent Karasek crashing to the floor. Whimpering softly, the older boy curled into a fetal position and struggled only to breathe, forgetting completely about trying to rise to his feet. Above him, Schultheiss's ragged breathing burned into Karasek's ears as the smaller boy stared daggers at his defeated opponent.

"Get up," shouted Schultheiss, stamping a foot by the boy's ear. "Get up, you piece of shit." Karasek only sobbed and continued to cradle his destroyed nose. Schultheiss spat blood at him, splattering it across the boy's trunks.

"And you call yourself Aryan," derided Schultheiss, turning away from Karasek dismissively. He stalked to his side of the ring, not even waiting for the official call of his victory.

"Give me my fucking towel," he demanded of a classmate, his voice still fueled with rage. Catching the towel in midair, he glared venomously across at Jansenn. Dabbing the sweat from his face, Schultheiss never stopped walking until he reached the other end of the ring. He ducked under the ropes and hopped down to the main floor. Still moving, he threw the towel aside and walked purposefully out of the training room.

xxxxxxxxxx

20 June 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"How is your karambit training progressing, in your opinion, Tristan?" Ashton regarded the small Immortal with interest as the boy stood before him. Tristan, for his part, seemed confused by his invitation to the training hall. He also wondered why no one else was present in the room.

"I think it's going well. Asami's an awesome teacher. She's kicking my butt, of course, but I'm learning a lot, too."

Ashton nodded, putting a hand to his chin. "Good," he replied. "Tomorrow, I want you to add something new with your training."

Tristan's face brightened. "Really? What's that?"

Ashton placed both hands behind his back and looked into Tristan's eyes. "You are to start carrying two karambits around with you at all times. And here is the real kicker. No one is to know you're doing it."

Tristan's smile faded. "How will I do that? Won't they be pretty obvious attached to my belt?"

"That's just the thing," grinned Ashton. "They won't be."

"But…then where will I put them?"

"In your pockets."

"My pockets?" Tristan repeated. He pantomimed taking the weapons in and out of his pockets and removing them from their scabbards. "That's going to be all kinds of clumsy, isn't it?"

"Not if you do it the way I'm thinking, it won't be," answered Ashton. As Tristan stared up at him quizzically, Ashton turned to face the doorway. "Val? Bring him in, please."

Valentin Dumitrescu entered, another man at his side carrying a small box. Walking around the padded mats, the two men approached one of the side tables and the man set the box upon it.

"Thank you, Val," said Ashton. Val nodded and left without a word. "Tristan, this man is Ed Burnside, a tailor of my employ. He had made a few things for you."

Interested now, Tristan stepped over to Burnside. "Good evening, sir," he greeted, smiling.

"And to you, young man," returned Burnside. "Let me show you what I have." He reached inside the box and withdrew a pair of khaki cargo shorts. Tristan's face fell slightly. Burnside chuckled.

"I know. Clothing is hardly an exciting topic for a boy your age. However, considering what Mr. Ashton has said you are learning, I believe you will find this of interest. Please try these on."

Tristan nodded without complaint and removed the training gi top and trousers he wore, placing them on the table. He stood there only in a t-shirt and underwear. Taking the shorts, he stepped into them. They had a snap top and a zipper front which he fastened. He did a few high steps and walked around to test the fit. Burnside grinned.

"How is it?"

"They fit well," replied Tristan. "Not too tight, not too loose. Very comfortable. They feel very sturdy actually, almost a little too much, though. In fact, it's just a little bit tight around the mid-thigh."

Burnside smiled again. "There is a reason for the strong construction, my boy. Please place your hands in the pockets."

Tristan did so, thrusting his hands into the spacious pockets. His expression contorted in confusion immediately. "These pockets are very deep. But what's this?" he asked, tapping something rigid along the inner part of each pocket with his fingertips. He pulled the material of his right pocket aside to get a look at the strange object. Several centimeters below the entry of the pocket, a thick flat polymer ran along his leg. Along the top of it, he could see an opening of some kind.

"That," replied Burnside, "is one of the special refinements of each of the items I have made for you."

Ashton stepped closer to them. "They're specially constructed scabbards for these," he said, producing two wicked-looking karambits. "Try them out."

Carefully, Tristan took the blades from Ashton's hands. They had a different feel than those he had used before. They were not plastic or metal, but of some other material. Tristan turned the karambit so the claw tip faced to the rear and slipped it through the opening of the right side pocket. It slid easily into the scabbard. With a slight click, it was secured. Tristan pulled his hand away from the pocket. The karambit was deep enough inside the well of the pocket and concealed by enough cloth that there was no sign of it whatsoever. Tristan slid the other blade in his left pocket until he heard a similar click.

"Perfect," said Burnside. "Now try walking about. How is your freedom of movement?"

Tristan walked, hopped, and jumped around, trying every kind of movement that came to mind. He even did a cartwheel on the mat just for the fun of it. When he was on his feet again, he glanced down at his pockets. There was still no sign of the little knives. He patted the pockets. They were still there, perfectly secure.

"Now, how well can you retrieve them?" asked Ashton. "Walk toward me and then draw one as smoothly as you can."

Tristan did as he was instructed. After three steps, he dipped a hand into a pocket. His fingers easily wrapped around the handle of the karambit. He pulled. Except for a slight tug at his mid-thigh, it withdrew with almost no effort as he continued to walk. He froze in mid-step.

"That's amazing," he said.

"Now you see the reason for that inner lining around the thigh," said Burnside. "It holds the scabbard in place and provides the resistance you need to keep from pulling out the entire pocket when you draw the blade. The pocket lining and stitching are all reinforced to be able to handle the additional strain of carrying the knives and holding up to multiple, forcible draws from the scabbard."

"Ed has made several variations of this for you, Tristan," said Ashton. "Several pairs of shorts, trousers, and jeans. They will be able to carry the type of karambit you have there. You will be able to walk about in broad daylight with your weapons on you and no one will be the wiser."

Tristan raised the karambit in his hand, looking at Ashton curiously. "What is this made from? It feels very different from the others."

"It's a fiberglass and ceramic composite," said Ashton. "It's completely nonmetallic, just like the scabbards. With current technology, you'll even be able to pass through a metal detector with them on you and not be discovered. Just don't let anyone pat you down."

"Wow!" exclaimed Tristan, eyeing the blade again. "This is so cool!"

"Ed is also going to make a version of them that can handle a metal variant of karambit that is being made for you. It will be able to withstand the additional punishment and will sharpen the edges every time it is sheathed and withdrawn. The labeling on the inside with help you differentiate between the two types."

"And," added Burnside, "as far as anyone else will be able to tell, as long as they don't actually touch the pockets or try to launder your clothes, of course, no one will know the difference. You will just be the boy with slightly deeper pockets. And plenty of room in them, by the way, for other everyday items, naturally."

"Mr. Burnside," said Tristan with a grin, "you just made clothing gifts interesting for me. Thank you so much."

Burnside smiled and bowed slightly at the waist. "It is my pleasure, young man." Turning to Ashton, he said, "I will leave the other items here for you, sir. I will have more for you in a few days."

"Thank you, Ed," replied Ashton, nodding. "I'll show you to the door. Tristan, please take these things to your room and put them away for now. If I recall correctly, you have a date with the other children at the pool now."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Blake almost caught you that time, Daddy," announced Tally from the side of the pool.

"Yeah," said Johnny, bobbing in the water nearby. "Another two meters and he'd have touched your toes during that length."

At one end of the pool, Ashton clung to the edge while Blake treaded water casually next to him, a huge grin on the boy's face.

"He's certainly living up to the "fish" moniker, isn't he?" remarked Paula from beside Tally, her arm around the girl and, on her other side, the other around Marc.

"I'll say," admitted Ashton. "Perhaps I should enter him in the next IronKids competition."

"They have those?" asked Alyssa, swimming up alongside Ashton. "Isn't that competition a bit much for children?"

"Oh, no," replied Ashton. "It's pared down for them. It's a 150-yard swim, a 4-mile bike ride and a 1-mile run, in that order."

"I can do that," said Blake, smiling again. "Would need bike first."

"That's easy enough, little one," said Ashton, reaching out to tickle the boy's ribs beneath the water. Blake giggled musically from the ministrations. Placing a foot on Ashton's chest, the boy pushed hard to escape the attack, slipping back toward the center of the pool. He grinned again at his achievement.

"Oh, is it another chase you want now?" inquired Ashton.

Nodding, Blake swiveled and swam off, laughing. Ashton was right behind him.

Tristan, sitting on Tally's other side, leaned back to comment in a stage whisper to Paula. "Who's the bigger child here? Blake or David?"

The whole group chuckled at the joke. The other pool occupants joined in the merriment, as well, as they watched the pursuit end with Ashton catching Blake's foot. He pulled the struggling, giggling boy into a hug and tickled him further as they both slowly sank beneath the water. They broke the surface a moment later, sputtering and still laughing.

Valentin Dumitrescu sauntered into the room, a cell phone in his hand, and observed the game silently for a moment. He stood behind Tristan and Paula for several seconds before speaking.

"I'm sorry to interrupt the fun, sir, but you have a call from the TOC." He held up the cell phone. "Sergeant Major Weatheral."

"Not a problem, Val," said Ashton, releasing Blake as he swam back to the side. Pulling himself up to sit next to the children, he reached for the phone. "Yes, Alan?" He listened without response for a few seconds. Slowly, his smile faded away.

"Is this confirmed?" he asked as he scooted back and then stood. Nodding his thanks to Val, he turned toward the exit. "Outstanding work. Tell everyone. Fill me in." A moment later, he removed the phone from his ear and touched the speakerphone option as he neared the doorward. "Keep talking," he said, still walking. "You caught me in the pool. I'll get dressed and be there in a few minutes."

"Well," said Johnny, treading water. "I'll guess you'll have to chase me now, Blake."

xxxxxxxxxx

21 June 2005

Enfield, England

The farmhouse had been abandoned when it had been purchased and a lot of its surrounding buildings had been neglected or had fallen apart over the years. After they had been reclaimed by Farid and his men, the materials from these buildings had been repurposed to form the newly constructed storage facilities now present on the lot. Many of the trees around the buildings had also been felled in order to provide additional space for the warehouses. The reduction in flora had done nothing to noticeably affect the concealment of the trees surrounding the farmhouse. It was still completely hidden from sight from all inhabitants nearby.

Teams three and four of Charlie Company approached slowly from the north and south through the forest. Ashton and three other NextGen personnel accompanied team four in the south; Dublin was with team three. They tread carefully, making as little sound as possible, using night vision devices to aid their travel through the darkness. At prearranged map coordinates, team four turned west. When they stopped, they and team three formed an L-shape on the northern and eastern sides of the farmhouse's perimeter. It was exactly four o'clock in the morning.

"Shadow Niner, this is Nightmare Six. We're in position, over," reported Ashton in a whisper over his helmet mic to the four-man surveillance team dug in to the south.

"Roger, Nightmare Six," replied the team. "We saw you, break. Four men departed the location by automobile twenty minutes ago. One of the guards was too close until just now to report. Identities of the men was impossible to determine, over."

Ashton's reaction was a mental curse. He bore no illusions who those men were. His expression was blank as he sent his instructions to the two strike teams. "This is Nightmare Six. Shadow Niner, hunker down. Charlie three, charlie four, move in as planned. Shoot to kill if you must, but take as many prisoners as possible, break. Mission is go. Execute, over."

"This is Charlie Three Six, roger, over."

"Charlie Four Six, roger, over."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Who are these Shadow teams," asked Jack as he listened to the whispered radio chatter. "They sound like the LRS (long range surveillance) teams we have back in the States."

"That's a very simplistic way of describing them," replied Robyn Radway from her chair. "That is one of their functions, yes, but it's very simple compared to the typically more complex sorts of operations they conduct."

"Like what?"

"Hmmm…" said Radway, leaning back slowly. "There is actually a video game that describes them very well, in fact. Have you ever played Splinter Cell?"

Jack could not resist his laughter. "You're kidding, right? These guys are like real life Sam Fishers?"

With a tiny grin on her face, Radway looked back at Jack. "In a word, yes. After the strike teams, they're some of the best assets we have."

"Oh, God," said Jack. "No wonder the boss doesn't want to risk them on the hit, then."

"Exactly," added Weatheral, standing near one of the large viewing screens. "It would be like dulling your finest knife to open shipping boxes, a waste of resources. Their mission is done now. It's time for the strike teams to do their jobs."

They fell silent as Ashton said "Execute" and the teams confirmed the order. For several seconds, nothing seemed to happen. Closer inspection of the screens showed movement of individual team members through their helmet cams. The TOC staff and the teams knew from the intel relays by the Shadows that four men regularly patrolled the grounds individually, communicating with the house on an indeterminate schedule via handheld radios. Those guards did not, however, have the benefit of night vision goggles, only a familiarity with the grounds on which they walked.

Jack tapped his finger on his workstation as he watched a team member draw ever nearer to a slowly walking guard. Why, he wondered, had four men left the farmhouse at such an early hour, not even four o'clock in the morning? There was no doubt in his mind that they were Farid, Steyn, Pollack, and a driver, most likely. But why? Had they been tipped off somehow? And if so, why had they not alerted the rest of the men at the farmhouse?

The team member was only three meters from the guard now, waiting. On other monitors, the TOC personnel could see the other three guards were in similar danger. The first guard stopped his pacing and visibly yawned. He stepped over to a tree and placed his rifle against it. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he extracted a pack of cigarettes. Placing one in his mouth, he fished around in his trousers pocket for a lighter. He never found it. The Charlie Company team member materialized from the shadows. An arm wrapped around the guard's neck and dragged him into the trees. In seconds, the sleeper hold had rendered the man unconscious. A pair of flex cuffs secured his hands behind his back. The team member tapped a button on his helmet to signal his success. Over the next eight minutes, three more beeps sounded.

"This is Nightmare Six. Execute phase two, over."

"Charlie Three Six, roger, over."

"Charlie Four Six, roger, over."

The men moved with much more speed and purpose now. Team three broke from the trees, making its way for the farmhouse. Team four headed for the secondary building behind it. Three members of team four broke off and formed a blocking force at the back door of the farmhouse. Team three entered the farmhouse through the front door. It was unlocked and there was no need to breach it. The breach man simply checked it for traps, found none, and turned the knob.

There was no one in the main room of the farmhouse, as would be expected at the hour. The team moved quickly through it, dividing into prearranged subunits to search the house faster. No words were spoken and, except for the scuffing of their boots on the wooden floor, there was no sound. Off to one side, a toilet flushed. The three men in that part of the house froze and waited, their weapons trained on the closed door. It opened, light from the bathroom flooding out and silhouetting a yawning man. He paused, blinking wearily, as if unsure of what his eyes were telling him. The NextGen men smiled as one of them gestured for him to step forward. He complied without resistance.

Down the hallway, three more team members found a bedroom occupied by four snoring men. They entered and flipped on the lights. Pointing their weapons in the general direction of the men, they ordered them to wake up and surrender. The order was not shouted, but it was loud enough to be heard by everyone in the small room. Unfortunately for one of them, it was given in English. The man at the far end of the room rolled out of bed and dug furiously under his bed clothing. He rose with a Beretta pistol in his hands. He never fired it. A sound suppressed burst from the MP5 held by one of the team members caught him full in the chest, knocking him back. Seeing the skin color of the remaining men, the order was repeated in Arabic. The other three men obeyed.

Jack observed similar events in the other bedrooms of the farmhouse. Some of the men surrendered without a fight while others insisted on a futile attempt at resistance. All such attempts ended, save one, with the death of those men before they could fire a shot. The only man who fought back and survived, a young man of no more than twenty who was already awake, dressed, and wearing an apron, managed to pull his trigger, but had not released the safety on his pistol. The NextGen man who was his target, and who happened to be only standing a meter away from the man, responded with a simple buttstroke from his submachine gun into his forehead. The young fighter dropped to the floor, moaning, as his weapon was kicked away.

Team four's entry into the secondary building was completely anticlimactic. It was unoccupied. They found a litany of bomb components, tools, and other items, but no people. They reported this and then exited the secondary building, leaving a man behind. They moved on to each of the warehouse buildings, finding only completed bombs, but no fighters. They left the devices untouched and moved on to the next successive building, leaving one man each time.

"This is Charlie Three Six, farmhouse secure. Four hostiles dead, twenty prisoners. No casualties, over."

"This is Nightmare Six, roger, out."

Nine minutes later, the TOC personnel heard, "This is Charlie Four Six, all other buildings unoccupied and secure, over."

"This is Nightmare Six, roger, break. Moving into secondary houses with EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) team, over."

Jack slipped behind Robyn Radway as he made his way to the coffee maker. He shook his head.

"What is it, Jack?" asked Weatheral.

Jack filled his mug and sipped it before replying. He looked the sergeant major in the eye as he spoke.

"Something tells me this is either an all-too-easy stroke of luck or it's a trap. What do you think?"

Weatheral nodded. "Essentially the same thing." He picked up a hand mic and keyed the talk button. "Nightmare Six, this is Nightmare Three, over."

"This is Nightmare Six, over."

"Are you thinking trap, over?"

"Since I gave the go order, break. Send the victors (vehicles) for the prisoner and Shadow team extraction, over."

"Roger, over."

"Nightmare Six, out."

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton's top EOD technician, Tony Pugliesi, glared at the devices in front of him with a scowl. He rose from his kneeling position and moved down the line to the next stack of devices, kneeling again. He did not touch any of them, not yet. He only looked at them with an experienced eye. Shaking his head, he finally stood and faced Sergeant Major Dublin. Sunlight could just be seen through the open doorway of the warehouse.

"What have you got, Tony?" asked Dublin, his face grim.

"Well, I'm sure my guys in some of the other buildings are seeing the same thing, but what I see here, besides a shit ton of bombs, are that some are rigged to blow as soon as we touch them. Most of them are not, though. This was set up very quickly. I'd bet it was done just before those four guys left the farmhouse as a last minute "fuck you" to us."

"Last minute, you say?" asked Ashton, stepping into the warehouse. Despite his weariness, he kept his helmet on his head in order to hear the team communications, such as what he had just overheard between Dublin and Pugliesi.

"Yes, sir. If they'd had more time, they would have rigged more of the devices, maybe all of them, to blow once we tampered with them. From what I see, it looks like only about twenty percent of them."

"That's still forty devices that have to be blown in place rather than simply dismantled," remarked Dublin.

Pugliesi nodded at the sergeant major, glad to have another explosives expert nearby to translate the meaning of his words.

"Exactly," he said. "And, just from what I can see on the outside, I can already see that whoever built these things is a pro. He should work for us, in fact. These bombs are damn good.

"What I can't figure out, though, is why he made them in two different sizes. There are nearly one hundred, as far as I can tell, that are small. They'd fit in a backpack, for example. These others are three times that size. And there are just as many of them. What the hell were they planning to do with those?"

"That, Tony," answered Ashton, "is exactly what we're still trying to figure out." He looked through the doorway back at the farmhouse. "Perhaps, though I doubt it, but just maybe some of these blokes we captured today can shed some light on that."

xxxxxxxxxx

21 June 2005

Cheshunt, England

Steyn listened to his cell phone as the four men drove north through Cheshunt. He listened for a moment longer then ended the call with a simple, " _Totsiens_ (Goodbye)." He pocketed the phone and slumped further into the back seat.

"Why so glum, Charles?" asked Farid from the front.

"We just left behind twenty-four good men and nearly two hundred bombs, Aadam," spat Steyn. "Isn't that enough fucking reason for glumness for one morning? It's not like those guys were particularly prepared for the teams that were going to hit them, based on the stories you've told us from Afghanistan."

"That is sad, but true, Charles, but we had to cut our losses while we could. With a little luck, Carlton's present will be a nice surprise for them."

"I doubt it," muttered Steyn, staring darkly out the window.

"So do I," said Pollack. "Chances are they have EOD techs at least as skilled as I am. They'll probably spot the trips on the devices. At best, we've slowed them down a little."

"Perhaps," replied Farid.

"And now our whole fucking timeline is shot to hell, as well," stated Steyn. "There's no way we can replace that many devices in time to meet out planned deadline."

"Now that is true, but I do have a backup plan just for that eventuality. That is why we have those twelve devices in the boot."

"I can't vouch for all of them, Aadam," admitted Pollack. "Some of the components I acquired a while ago were not the best. A few of the devices might not work as well as we want."

"Ah," responded Farid, waving a dismissive hand. "As long as they work, we will still achieve our aims. It's the second and third objectives that we truly want anyway." He turned in his seat and handed a notebook to Steyn.

"What's this?" asked the South African.

"A few notes of mine and some people I'd like you to call while I'm away."

"You're leaving again?" Steyn squinted his eyes at the Arab.

"Indeed. The setback in Afghanistan last year caused some problems for Hakim's recruiting efforts in Iraq. I'm going there to spur him along and get the additional men we need for our third phase."

"Don't we have enough already? We have another thirty scattered around the country."

"No," replied Farid. "That will be enough for phase two. We will need many more than that for phase three."

Steyn shrugged in his seat. "Okay. What the hell? I can do this, at least, as long as Carlton can replace the bombs."

"Get me the components and you'll have the bombs, Charles," answered Pollack.

"Excellent," responded Farid. "I always knew the two of you were dependable. Now, let's get to our other safehouse and settle down for a while. Tomorrow, I need to worry about how to get out of England once again."

xxxxxxxxxx

23 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

"Now that _Shabbat_ is over, can we talk about what you're going to do to Capone?" Alyssa curled up in a chair, still dressed in one of Ashton's dress shirts, panties, and little else. She watched him with expectant eyes as she awaited his answer.

"Are you planning to take part in my plan?" he asked her.

You're damn right. He came after me just as much as he did you. Whether it was because I simply happened to be with you at the time in inconsequential."

Nodding, Ashton sat back in his chair and put his feet up on an ottoman. He ran the back of his hand over his face as he reconsidered his ideas, feeling the scratchings of the day-old stubble beneath his fingers. One of his few conflicts with the Jewish day of rest and certain other holidays was the prohibition against shaving. He despised facial hair. He was even debating whether or not to keep the mustache he had developed and carefully crafted over the last few years. Somehow, it just did not seem to suit him.

"Alright, here are the basics of it all. If there is one thing I learned during the last week, it is that I need more information about Capone and his operations. Tomorrow - and perhaps the next day, too - will be all reconnaissance into that. I could really make use your Baker Avenue Informants for that, as well. Can you manage their work while I work my side?"

Alyssa nodded immediately. "No problem. Where should I do it?"

"How much do you trust Bobby?"

"Implicitly."

"Then you can stay right here, if you wish, and make all your calls from the room. They can call him and he can call you back here, as well."

"Okay," she agreed, nodding again. "Just let me know what they need to find out for you."

Ashton stood up and went to his suitcase. He pulled a notepad from inside it and sat again. He took a pen from the side table and began to write. "I'll give you a list of questions I need to have answered. If they can find information about any of them, it will help."

"Where will you be?"

"I'll be in the northern part of the city tomorrow. I saw a few things last week that caught my interest. I want to verify my thoughts before I make definitive plans about our next moves."

"Okay. And after the recon is done?"

"That is when we put together our framework for our counterattack on Capone. The location, the methods, everything that we will do."

"So you're not the type to just kick in a door and start shooting, I suppose?"

Ashton smiled at her. "Certainly not. That is how you end of like those men we met yesterday, especially against a determined enemy."

It was Alyssa's turn to smile. "You talk like they're just as good as you are."

"Assuming any of Capone's men are going to make the same mistakes as they did yesterday is the mark of an amateur. That is how you get killed. Besides, they have an Immortal working for them. I met him at Capone's house yesterday."

"An Immortal? Who?"

"Bobby mentioned his name. Carlton Pollack. I want to know more about him also before we make any further moves. I know an Immortal in Chicago who has an uncanny amount of knowledge about other Immortals. It's almost like he has records on them all."

Alyssa giggled. "Maybe he does. Everyone needs a hobby. Maybe that's his."

Ashton smirked. "Perhaps. Medici always was an odd one. But there are things he has said in the past that lead me to believe there may be more than just that."

"Really? Like what?"

Ashton set his notepad aside and walked over to the snack table. He tore a banana from the bunch. Setting it to one side, he poured a glass of Scotch, as well. He then picked up both and returned to his seat. As he walked, he answered her.

"He never gave specifics, only the vaguest generalities, little hints that were easy to miss if you were not paying attention. He knew who I was, of course. It sounded like he was implying there might be a group of mortals who keep tab on Immortals, who keep records on all of our lives."

Alyssa pulled her legs into her chair, hugging her knees to her chin. "Now that is scary," she admitted. "Just think what that kind of information could cause if the wrong people had it."

"Exactly," replied Ashton. "One of the worst possibilities, naturally, would be the witch hunts on a global scale that could result. It is truly worrisome. Mortals, with knowledge of who we are, what we look like, and all of our weaknesses, prowling about in search of our heads."

"And no way for us to sense them as they approach," she whispered, shivering.

"Yes. My fear, as well."

"So you'll go talk to him tomorrow?"

"I will," he replied, sipping from his glass. "I'll learn whatever I can about Pollack and Capone's activities in the north. I'll then come back here to see what kind of progress you've made on my list."

"Sounds like a good plan so far. Let me see the list."

He handed it to her and then returned his attention to his snack and beverage.

xxxxxxxxxx

24 February 1929

Northern Chicago

As always, Medici's taste in wine was superb. Ashton sat back in his chair and let the liquid sit in his mouth for a few blissful seconds before swallowing. He sighed with pleasure.

"Once again, my friend," he said to the old Immortal, "you have chosen an excellent vintage."

Medici smiled. "I'm glad you approve," he said. "Do you recognize it?"

Frowning slightly, Ashton took another sip. Swirling it about on his tongue, he considered the flavor carefully. Finally, his expression brightened. "Yes," he said, smiling. "It's mine. This is from my German vineyard, the Baden Spätburgunder. I established it in 1872."

"Exactly," replied Medici, offering the bottle for Ashton to see the label. "I thought it appropriate for your visit."

Ashton laughed at the sight and gratefully extended his glass for a refill. Nodding his thanks, he reclined again.

"What can I do for you, my friend?" asked Medici. "Besides fill you with wine, of course."

Smirking, Ashton regarded the Immortal for several seconds, inhaling the vapors of the wine as he thought. "A bit of information, please, about another Immortal."

"Oh?" replied Medici, sipping from his own glass. "Which one?"

"Carlton Pollack. What do you know of him?"

"Ah, him," said Medici, after another sip. "He's a nasty one. Looks like a red-haired accountant, but he's one of the best smugglers and bomb makers I've ever known of. He's quite the chemist, so he dabbles in other things besides bombs, but it's the things that go boom that really interest him. He likes to build the bombs himself whenever he can. He's a little over three hundred years old, so he's had some time to perfect his craft."

Ashton grinned at this. "Not as long as you have had to perfect the art of keeping tabs on people, "Ledger Keeper.""

Medici chuckled. "Nor as long as you in the double fields of power and money, Rusa."

"Touche'," replied Ashton, sipping his wine again. "There are not many who know my real name, by the way. My dear Lorenzo Sangallo, how did you come to know of it?"

Medici's jaw dropped momentarily. He had never informed Ashton of his real name, only a series of assumed names. After recovering himself, and with a complimentary nod to his friend, Medici continued. "The same way I came to know of Pollack's love of the use of gelignite and other types of plastique explosives, through the careful cultivation of sources, just as you have."

Ashton raised his glass. "Sources like that cost more than my wine, Medici, which is a hefty price, else they owe you something dear."

Medici shrugged dismissively as he refilled his glass again. "Is one's life so dear? Or that of one's child? It's a matter of perspective after all."

"Is that what you have over the source that told you about Pollack?"

"It was nothing really. I merely plucked a woman and her two children out of a village about to be stormed by the Austro-Hungarians and re-established them elsewhere in Italy. Sadly, one of the young boys died along the way. 'Twas a minor thing fourteen years ago."

"Not to that woman, I'd say," declared Ashton.

A flicker of a smile crossed Medici's lips. "No, I'd say not. At first, I mistook her hesitancy to speak more than a few words to me as typical jitters of war, perhaps the trauma of the death of her husband a few weeks before. What a shock it was to me when I realized she was fully aware of my immortality."

Ashton paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. He stared over its lip at the Florentine. His blue eyes blinked once.

"Aware, you say? Are you sure she didn't see something about you that allowed her to deduce this?"

"No, nothing," asserted Medici. "Absolutely nothing. She already knew the moment she saw me."

"And she was not Immortal herself?"

"No."

Ashton took a long pull from his glass and set it aside. "Then how could she have known?"

"You will find this incredible, my friend. Before the war, and even during, her job was to track people like us, to keep records on us just like I do on everyone."

Ashton shook his head. "Keep records? That's all?"

"Yes, that is all. Essentially, they're historians."

"They?"

"Yes, the organization with whom Aurora worked calls themselves Watchers. She said they, "observe and record, but never interfere" with the lives of Immortals."

"And she told you all of this willingly?"

"Of course. I had just saved her and one of her sons from enemy attack, after all. She was very grateful…and a little drunk."

Ashton smirked. "That's more like the Medici I know. So how does that translate into your knowing about Pollack now?"

"Ah, yes. Well, as it turned out, Aurora was actually _my_ Watcher. She had to follow me wherever I went. To this day she is still my Watcher. I simply asked her to supply me with a precis of the lives of any Immortal who happened to pass through whatever city I may be inhabiting at the time. She has to take certain precautions, of course, lest her employers discover her actions, but she always comes through with a packet of information in the post."

"And, I imagine," added Ashton, "after all this time, with the memories of war fading, you financially compensate her well for her additional efforts.

Medici shrugged. "Information has a price. Reliable information has a higher price. Reliable and useful information is the most expensive of all."

"And which do you have on Pollack?"

"The third, of course. I don't like bombers. Bloody bunch of cowards, every last one of them. In Pollack's case, he is the worst of the lot. He is good at what he does, he knows it, and he's willing to sell his services to the highest bidder."

Medici sighed. "Bombs. Whatever happened to two men settling matters across their drawn blades?"

"It certainly seems to be a rarity these days," admitted Ashton. "Besides his chemistry and bomb crafting skills, does your lady's packet say anything about Pollack's ability with a sword?"

"Not in terms of technique, per se, but it does have one particular morbid piece of datum."

"And what is that?"

"That number of confirmed Immortal kills he has. Every precis I have received from Aurora has that information. Even yours. Would you like to know what number was on your bio packet?"

"Not particularly, no, thank you," replied the Minoan with a grin.

"Let's just say it's impressive," said Medici. "As far as Pollack, he has thirty-seven confirmed Immortal kills."

"That many in three hundred years?" asked Ashton. "Sounds like he's killing every Immortal he meets."

"Practically so. The only exception seems to be a South African nationalist, Charles Steyn, that he met during the war. Apparently they got along quite well."

"Where is this Steyn right now?"

"Germany. He's involved with the national socialists. Begging for alms along with the rest of them."

"Don't scoff too soon," Ashton warned. "America's economy is supported by a massive injection of credit, particularly the stock market. That is not going too last long. I believe a crash is coming before the end of the year. When that happens, it will have worldwide implications.

"Remember the Dawes Plan which restructured Germany's reparations payments and provided loans from the U.S. to pay them? If the American economy suffers a blow, it will call in its international loans. That means Germany, too. The loss of the liquidity of those loans to German industry will cause a contraction in production and employment. That contraction in employment will naturally cause a reduction in consumption of goods as the rise in unemployment causes people to spend less. The cycle then spirals and you have a depression and the suffering worsens."

"And you have the perfect setting for a group of socialists, nationalist or otherwise, to step in and offer a misguided dream of salvation to the masses," finished Medici.

"Exactly." Ashton shook his head with a grin, always amazed at how the flow of conversation could draw people so far from the original topic. He reached for his glass and took another long draw from it. "What else do you have on Pollack?"

"Besides being a gifted chemist and apparently a skilled swordsman, my notes also say he likes to sail, fish, and read, of all things, romance novels. I suppose everyone has their quirks. I hear he even dabbles in electronics. The notes I have on him say he is even attempting to develop a radio-controlled detonating device for his explosives to replace wire and plunger-types of detonators. Other than that, there is not much of use about him."

"Since I knew none of it before today, I'd say it's all quite useful." Ashton finished his glass with a sigh of contentment. "I had forgotten how truly exquisite that wine was. I have been too preoccupied with this liquor business of late." He turned his gaze to Medici. "What do I owe you for the information, my friend?"

Medici grinned. "For you, David, another ten cases of the 1898 Baden, if any of it is still around, would be more than sufficient."

Ashton smiled at the Florentine. "That won't be a problem. Just come by my warehouse at the docks." He gave Medici the address. "You can sign for it there and arrange for shipment wherever you like; my expense. I'll have someone notify you once it arrives. It will be listed as tonic water on the invoice by the way."

Ashton gave Medici a sidelong glance. "You know I do have vineyards besides the one in Baden, right? Have you tried anything from my Mosel Valley vineyard?"

"Ah, yes, your Rieslings are excellent. They are the only white wine I drink but, as you know, I usually prefer the red wines whenever possible."

Ashton chuckled again. "Then I shall send you twenty cases of Spätburgunder and include ten of Riesling, as well. Consider it a down payment on my next visit. I am going to want to hear more, much more, about these mortals who watch Immortals."

"I shall whet your appetite, then, at no additional charge. One moment." Medici stood and walked out of the room. He returned moments later with a folder in his hand. "I believe you will find this to be interesting reading," he said, "once you have the time, of course."

xxxxxxxxxx

24 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

Chicago Docks

Bobby Swanson crouched behind a crate in the warehouse, hidden from view from the men on the upper floor of the warehouse. The men above did not expect him, were not looking for a visitor, and were not in the least bit on the lookout for anyone. All this aided the teen in his skulking about the place.

He didn't much care for sneaking about like a rat in Mr. Ashton's own warehouse, but Alyssa's instructions had been absolute. Don't be seen by anyone. He slipped from one shadow to the next, looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. So far, the massive building had been a vast emptiness and completely boring. Bobby kept looking nonetheless.

He reached the back of the warehouse without trouble. Pulling a flashlight from his back pocket, he clicked it on. He looked around briefly and turned it off again. Sitting in the darkness, he mentally cursed. Nothing again. This was turning out to be a wasted effort. _Maybe that's a good thing,_ he thought.

He leaned his back against a supporting beam. His head rested against something cool and metallic. Curious, he turned and aimed his light at it. Clicking the torch again, his eyes grew wide. Before him was a silver device about a meter square with wires running from it. If not for the fact that various items of other detritus were piled around it - which Bobby was using to conceal himself should someone walk into the room - it would have been completely invisible. He followed the wires along the wall. He quickly found another device. It was also attached to a supporting beam. Whispering a curse aloud this time, he kept searching.

Occasionally ducking behind columns or crates to hide from passing employees, Bobby followed the trail of wires throughout the warehouse. In all, he found twenty-seven of the squarish devices. He knew little about architecture, but he surmised each of them to placed on strategic support columns.

"Not good," he whispered to himself. "Not good at all."

xxxxxxxxxx

24 February 1929

Calumet City, Illinois

Ashton returned to the hotel room just after seven o'clock that evening to find Alyssa sitting in her usual chair, the telephone to her ear. She had a notepad in front of her, scribbling notes furiously as she listened to the voice at the other end. The revolver she had borrowed from him the previous Friday lay next to it.

The girl visibly relaxed on seeing he was the Immortal arriving at the door. She waved him over to her as she continued to listen. Ashton picked up a nearby chair and set it next to her.

"I have David here now, Bobby. I'm going to have him listen, too. Please repeat what you just said."

"Okay," said the teenager. "I just got back from the warehouse. The entire place has these big squarish metal boxes attached to specific columns all throughout it. I think they're bombs. I counted twenty-seven of them. I didn't see any sort of timer on them so I don't know when they're supposed to go off, but it really looked bad. I think someone is going to blow the entire place. It was scary. Wires were attached to all of them and the boxes were hidden very well. I only found them by accident. I had the jitters bad once I'd found them all. I got out of there as soon as I could and came back here to call you."

Ashton nodded soberly and sat back in his seat. Alyssa continued to listen to the boy's chatter.

"Alright, Bobby. Good work. That's exactly what I needed to know. Now try to calm yourself and get some rest. Thank you for your help today."

She hung up and looked over at Ashton, her expression weary. "It's been like this since about noon," she said. "The phone has been ringing nonstop with reports from the boys. I've been a regular, what do you call it - operations center? - over here."

Ashton smirked as he stood to pour himself a drink. "I thought you would be. It was no easy task I left for you, after all."

"I'll say. One of the boys called in a while ago to say he had been in Capone's house hiding in a closet in the man's office for most of the day. They're hopping mad about what we did to the team that attacked us last Friday, particularly about killing Paul Stern. They have people crawling all over the city looking for us right now. The boy said his bladder nearly exploded while he waited for a chance to sneak away."

"He's safe now?" Ashton inquired, sipping his whiskey.

"Oh, yes. A little shaken, but he's fine. Tommy is a good boy."

"Good." He sat again. "From what Bobby says, it sounds like Carlton Pollack has been busy himself over the weekend. That warehouse on the docks is very important to me. If they destroy that warehouse, it could potentially ruin my plans in the Chicago area, or at least stall them significantly. I can't let that happen."

"You make it sound like you're working under a deadline."

"Like I told Medici earlier today, I believe the United States is going to face a severe economic downturn later this year. I don't want to have the additional headache of trying to expand my operations in the middle of such a time."

"You want everything already in place," Alyssa realized.

Ashton smiled at her. "Yes, I do. Prohibition will likely only last a few more years in this country, as well. I intend to capitalize on it as long as possible before the laws change."

"So, what are we going to do right now?" she asked, handing him her day's notes and his original list of questions.

He took several moments to peruse the notes, making the occasional tick mark or sidenote himself. "We still need some more information, I think," he replied finally, writing as he spoke. "I need you to send your Baker Avenue Informants out one more time. There are still a few items on this list that, if possible, could use an answer. I also have some more questions. There is also one more place up north I want to check out tomorrow."

He finished his additions to the questions list and returned it to her. Alyssa scanned the new items quickly. Her eyebrows rose upon seeing the last several entries.

"Really? You want them to check out Eddie and a visiting U.S. Representative?"

Smiling, Ashton responded, "Given what they've already proven capable of doing, that should be no problem for them. I just want them to verify the questions on that page, nothing more. I believe I already know the answers from other sources. A little more confirmation won't hurt."

Alyssa set the papers on the side table and regarded Ashton carefully. "Just what are you planning to do, David Ashton? What could possibly involve a lawyer, a member of Congress, and your beef against Al Capone? Are you going to kill them all?"

Alyssa did not expect Ashton's response to her question. He laughed aloud. For a long time. When he finally caught his breath, he looked into her eyes and smiled.

"Oh, no, my dear Alyssa. Since he obviously has no intention of paying me what I am owed, what I have in mind will be a great deal worse, at least from Big Al's perspective, than just killing any of them."

"What is it then?"

When he told her, Alyssa could do nothing but stare at him silently for many moments after he finished speaking.

"Oh, God, David, I think you're right. Capone would much rather you just shot him rather than that. Do you think it will work?"

"If the information I'm asking your boys to verify turns out to be true, even in a corrupt town like Chicago, there is no way it can't work."

xxxxxxxxxx

25 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

The house looked like any other on the block. There was absolutely nothing about it to mark it as a point of interest to anyone. That was exactly why Al Capone's men had selected it for its purpose, in fact. Anonymity was security. They had even gone to the effort of having a couple live at that address in order to give it the appearance of normality.

 _Well done, Al,_ thought Ashton from his concealed position across the street. _Too bad for you you're not the only one with influence and connections in this town._

The faux owners of the house were out shopping. Nearby, a car was parked with a man in a dark suit observing the house. Only the one car, though. There was no other security in place for the house. Anything else might be noticed by someone other than a professional looking for it. Since Ashton had expected such security to be located somewhere near the house, he spotted it quickly. Avoiding the sight of the bored lookout was easy. Ashton simply walked down a block, turned, and came back behind the residence.

Standing by the back door of the house now, he tested the doorknob. He grinned. It was locked, as he had expected. He knelt by the door and withdrew a set of lockpicks. While he was not as proficient at the task as his friend, Darren Dublin, who had taught him the skill, would have been, he still had the door open within thirty seconds. He stepped inside the house and shut the door behind him.

Ashton stood and listened. His right hand was in his trousers pocket, the fingers wrapped around a pocket knife. He had no information leading him to believe there was a dog in the house, but he was prepared for one nonetheless. He returned the lockpicks to his jacket with his left hand and withdrew the knife, slowly opening the blade. A well-trained dog would remain silent and might even wait to ambush him as he made his way through the house. He kept the open knife by his side as he walked slowly down the hallway. There was no sound.

He found the object of his search at the third door. Rather than making any vocal reaction to the sight, he simply grinned slightly and tapped the knife twice against his leg. He nodded. His information was correct. The nondescript brick residence was a cash house, the underground version of a bank. The empty bedroom the Minoan now surveyed contained only meter-and-a-half high stacks of American currency. The total stack was at least two meters square.

Ashton entered the room and gave the bills a closer examination. There were twenties, fifties, and hundreds in counted, banded bundles. He guessed that each bundle held fifty notes. He set the knife atop the massive pile and reached down, carefully extracting one hundred-dollar note from a bundle. Folding it in half, he slipped it in his pocket and retrieved his knife.

A search of the rest of the house resulted in nothing but the normal wares of the typical American household. There was not even anything interesting hidden in the icebox. And there was no dog. Counting his blessings, Ashton returned the knife to his pocket. Padding quietly down the staircase, he walked back the way he had come and went out the back door, locking it behind him.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

Eddie O'Hare had the good life. He had worked hard for it and earned every penny of it. Now all he had to do was to make himself and his family legitimate. He had started out that way, of course but, like all things in Chicago, it has eventually become involved with the Mob whether he wanted it to or not.

He had started out humble enough taking law classes while working for his father's grocery store in Missouri. He eventually passed the Bar exam, sent his son to a military academy, and joined a law firm. He even found time to pursue other business interests on the side, all on the up and up, naturally. Nothing really worked out for him, though, until he happened upon the commissioner of the International Greyhound Racing Association, Owen Patrick Smith.

Smith hired Eddie to help him obtain a patent for a new device he had invented, a mechanical rabbit he used to entice dogs to run around race tracks. Shortly afterward, Smith died and Eddie purchased the patent rights from Smith's widow. This was when Eddie really hit it big. He and his family could even afford to move into a nicer neighborhood. After he divorced his wife, Selma, in 1927, Eddie left the three kids with her when he moved to Chicago.

Eddie soon learned that crime bosses were very much like business insurers in Chicago. When he sought to set up his mechanical rabbit with the local tracks, he very quickly found himself working with the local mob bosses, as well. Before long, he and none other than Al Capone would be operating dog tracks in Chicago, Miami, and Boston. He also assisted Capone with several other ventures which kept the mobster and his men men out of jail and enriched them all. Eddie O'Hare, of course, made excellent money as a result.

Yeah, everything was going just fine for Edward Joseph O'Hare. Then why was he such a wreck on the inside? And why the hell was he sitting in a confessional booth on the other side of town from his home?

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," began Eddie. "It's been, oh, I don't know, ages since my last confession."

"Very well, my son," comforted the priest from behind the screen. "Continue."

"I just have to get some things off my chest. I don't know where else to go. I'm in a tight spot, you know? I've been working with the Chicago Outfit since I came to this city two years ago. I've done pretty well for myself but now things are starting to get a bit rough. The Feds are starting to look closer at things like income tax evasion and I don't know how much longer I can keep the people I'm helping out of trouble for that."

"You've been assisting them in these things?" asked the priest.

"Yeah," said Eddie. "I'm a lawyer and I'm pretty good with numbers and things like that, making money appear and disappear, you know? But that gets more difficult when the amount of money starts to grow. Hundreds of thousands, millions. That's a lot of scratch. It's hard to explain that kind of dough when you're clients are a bunch of blue-collar guys who aren't supposed to have that kind of income from the jobs they claim to have. You can only make so much of it seem to come out of restaurants, antiques, and used furniture."

"And you are worried they might get caught eventually?"

"Yeah, I am," Eddie admitted, "and me, as well. They'll naturally drag me down with them. If I go down, my kids go down, too. There'll be no one left to take care of them."

"I see. That is quite a quandary."

"And now my son, who will graduate high school soon, is talking about wanting to go to the Naval Academy. That's a big problem for me." Eddie sighed. "It's not money. If it were just money, I could handle that. To get into a military academy, a kid needs the nomination of a local senator or congressman. There's no way I can get that, not without exposing my mob connections and befouling the family name. If I do that, it soils not just my reputation, which might be ruined anyway for all I know, but it ruins my son's, as well. Ruins it before he's even started his life. I can't do that to him. There has to be something I can do that will get me out of this mess and help him better himself, also."

There were several seconds of uncomfortable silence as the priest pondered Eddie's words. When he spoke, it was not about the secular problems he faced, but the spiritual roots of them. He hoped his counsel would be of some benefit to the man. Neither of the two men noticed the small boy crouching behind the confessional booth silently listening to their entire conversation.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 February 1929

Chicago, Illinois

Happiness Restaurant

Fifth Avenue at 44th Street

John Rogers, a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, regarded the man across the table from him with interest. His took a deliberate sip from his glass of ice water before his spoke.

"Tell me, please, Congressman Cochran, what brings you to Chicago. This certainly isn't Missouri. Why are you here?"

John J. Cochran smirked at the reporter. "I might ask you the same, Mr. Rogers, being that we are both out of our usual stomping grounds. Let's just say I am here on the invitation of an acquaintance who believes I will find matters of interest in this area. I tend to trust his judgement and have come here based on his recommendation."

Rogers chuckled. "That's funny. I had a similar recommendation from a source of mine a day ago. Called me up and said I should come here as soon as possible. Even said I should meet you here."

"Oh?" asked the representative. "It sounds like we may have the same acquaintance."

"Moderate height. About thirty. Blond with piercing blue eyes. Strange accent."

"That would be the one," affirmed Cochran. "Now I wonder what he would think would be so interesting that he would want to bring the two of us together on such short notice."

"Well, whatever it was, he said the meal and the hotel was on him so we should enjoy ourselves."

"Did he? He didn't mention that to me."

"He probably thought you'd be concerned about trying to buy your decision on some matter or another. Didn't want that to sway your decision to come."

"Hah!" Cochran grinned. "After my years of knowing this man, such trivialities do not matter. He has never tried to influence my decisions on anything in such a way in the past so why start now? Besides, he's not even American. He knows better than to try such things. It's too much of a risk for us both."

"Not American? Really? What is he?"

"He's a businessman in Canada."

"Canadian, huh? From the accent, I would have thought German or even, well, I don't know. It's really hard to place that accent. It's all kind of muddled. Like a hodge-podge of different languages rolled into one accent, but like he still speaks English very well, you know? It's odd."

"Yes, I do. I have no problem understanding him at all, but I do often wonder about his origins myself. I have never asked him about them, though. I always thought it would be asking a bit too much of him."

"There's something else about him I always thought stood out about him, too."

"Oh, really?" asked Cochran. "What's that?"

"His hands. They're not like a businessman's hands. You know how most people who work in an office have very soft hands? Well, he doesn't. His are very rough. They remind me of a guy I met from Japan a few years ago. This guy was some kind of fighter, a lifelong practitioner of something they call karate. It's a kind of weaponless fighting; they only use their hands and feet. He had very tough hands, all calloused and whatnot from years of punching and striking. Well, this guy, Ashton, had hands just like that. When I shook his hand the first time, it reminded me of the karate guy. Not soft at all, but very rough."

"Now that you mention it, I do recall him having a rougher than normal handshake. I didn't really think about it. I guess I'm not as observant as I thought." The representative shrugged.

"So," continued Rogers, "did he tell you anything when he suggested you come up here to visit the city?"

"Not really," said Cochran, leaning back in his seat. "All he really said was, "Read the papers," and "Keep an eye on the docks.""

xxxxxxxxxx

25 February 1929  
Calumet City, Illinois

"What have your boys discovered for us?" asked Ashton as he settled into his chair that evening.

"Well," said Alyssa, looking over her notes, "besides saying that Capone is still hopping mad about Friday, they say that Eddie O'Hare is all shaken up about his connections with Al. Also, Congressman Cochran had a nice lunch with a reporter while wondering why they're here in the first place. They then went to their hotel and stayed there for the rest of the day. Ordered room service for dinner."

Ashton nodded and sipped his Scotch, his eyes far away. "Good. Good," he whispered.

"And what did you learn today?" inquired Alyssa, setting her notes aside.

The Minoan's expression cleared. He put his drink on the side table and stood. He approached her as he spoke, his hand in his pocket.

"I confirmed a suspicion I've had for a while. Old Al has a cash house up north." He dropped a one hundred dollar bill on the bed beside her. Alyssa's eyes widened as he continued talking. "That is from a stack a meter and a half tall. I'd say the room containing it is about two meters square. There are stacks of twenties, fifties, and hundreds there. There are easily hundreds of thousands or even a million dollars or more there."

"What are you planning?" she asked him.

"To strike back. There is enough money there to make up for what Al owes me and more. First, we hit the house and clean it out. Then we clear the warehouse of all the explosives Al and Pollack have planted there. After that, I have my big surprise for Al."

Alyssa smiled at that thought. "Yeah, I like that."

"I'll need twelve of the boys as helping hands at the house. Nothing dangerous. I have someone coming to help with the security, what little there is of it. They'll just help carry the money to the trucks. Make sure they can be trusted. They'll get a cut after the job is done so there is no need for them to skim."

"Don't worry about that," she assured him. "Who is the other guy?"

"A trustworthy Irishman. You may want to change back into your dress, by the way. No point showing him any leg without invitation," he grinned.

Alyssa smirked at his comment. "I'll do that after I call the boys."

"Too late," Ashton said, as the sensation of an Immortal's presence assaulted their nervous systems. "That ought to be him now." Nevertheless, they both moved closer to weaponry.

There was a double knock at the door. Ashton padded silently to it, placing the barrel of his .45 at head level against it.

"Yes?" he asked.

" _Is mise dom, David_ (It's me, David) _,_ " came the reply in Irish.

Lowering the pistol, Ashton opened the door wide. Grinning, he stepped back and admitted the Irishman.

"Welcome, Darren," he said.

"Thank you," said the dark-haired man as he entered, shutting the door behind him. Gesturing to the weapon, he quipped, "Showing your usual hospitality to guests, I see."

"You'd be disappointed otherwise," answered the Minoan, placing the pistol gently on the bed.

"Truly." Turning to face Alyssa, his grin broadened. "And who is this lovely lass?"

"Darren Dublin," said Ashton, "meet Alyssa Cordeiro, the head of my intelligence network here."

"If this is the head," stated Dublin, "I can't wait to see the tail."

Alyssa stood, smiling. "Is he always like this?" she asked, shaking Dublin's hand. He kissed it afterward to her amusement.

Rolling his eyes, Ashton responded. "At all times. You should see his counterpart, Johnny Fairbanks. Those two are absolute scoundrels when they're together. They feed off each other's devilish energy and there's just no stopping them."

She grinned again. "I do think I would enjoy meeting him someday."

"I warn you, young lady," Ashton contested. "He'll be the ruination of you."

"Or your complete liberation," countered Dublin, beaming with effervescent charm.

"Oh, damn," implored Ashton. "Don't you start, too, Darren."

"To use your words, old man, you'd be disappointed otherwise."

Ashton chortled, but faked a frown, placing a hand on his hip.

"Okay, children. Let's go over the plan. We need to get Darren off to his room so we can all get some rest. It's going to be an early morning tomorrow."

xxxxxxxxxx

26 February 1929

7244 South Prairie Avenue

Capone Residence

It was not even six o'clock in the morning yet. Tony Wiseman stood in front of Al Capone's desk trying to stifle a yawn. Carlton Pollack was next to the hitman looking like he was trying to do the same. Behind the desk, the big mobster looked incensed. His jowly face was red with rage; his whole body shook.

An attendant walked in with a carafe of coffee and placed it before the man. He nodded his thanks and poured a cup. He did not offer any to the two men in front of him. Capone sat and took several sips of the beverage before he spoke. Wiseman did his best not to shift his feet in irritation. He hated waiting, but what could he do? This was Capone.

Finally, Capone set his cup back on its saucer and glared at the men. His eyes shifted from Wiseman to Pollack and back. He said nothing for a full half minute. When at last he spoke, he roared.

"That bastard, Ashton, hit the cash house up north two hours ago. Killed all four of my boys up there. Slit their throats like pigs. Cleaned out the place from what we can tell. Scared away the old couple we had living there and then burned the place down. Almost two million dollars of _my money_ gone and this bastard just drives away laughing at me."

"You're sure it was Ashton, boss?" asked Wiseman softly, finally moving his feet about nervously.

"Who else would it be?" howled Capone. "Who else would have the big brass balls to come into my city, kill my boys, and take my money from right under my nose?"

"He's calling you out, Mr. Capone," declared Pollack.

"Don't you think I know that?" replied the mob boss, slamming his fist on the desk. The coffee cup rattled and nearly tipped over.

"The only question is where," stated Wiseman. "Where is he wanting the confrontation to be?"

"There's only one possible place," answered Pollack. "The warehouse on the docks. He must know about the explosives, or suspect something is up with the place, at least."

"Yeah," said Capone, a little calmer now. "That makes sense. Assuming he knows, how easily do you think he could disarm those bombs?"

"He'd have to have a damn good explosives guy working for him to be able to do that without triggering them, Boss," assured Pollack. "Even if he did, it would take him more than two hours to take care of them all. I'd just have to tune my new detonator into the remaining few to do significant damage to the place."

"That new radio-controlled thing of yours?"

"Yes, Boss."

Capone turned his gaze to Wiseman. "How long would it take you to round up a dozen boys and get their asses down to the docks?"

Wiseman checked his watch. "It's just past six now. We could be there and hit the place by seven-thirty. Eight o'clock at the latest."

Capone nodded. "Do it. Make it eighteen for good measure. They're bound to be waiting for you. They might even have some of those North Side Gang sons of bitches there with them. I don't want anyone walking out of there alive. Well, Ashton, maybe. I want to know where my money is."

"I'll take care of Ashton for you, Mr. Capone," promised Pollack with a smirk.

"Oh? I thought that was Tony's department."

Pollack's smirk grew into a full grin. "You'll see that I have skills other than just bomb making, sir."

"Alright," said Capone. "Get to it."

xxxxxxxxxx

26 February 1929

Chicago Docks

Ashton did indeed have some members of the North Side Gang accompanying him at the warehouse. The North Side Gang, also known as the North Side Mob, was the dominant Irish-American criminal organization - although a large number of Polish-Americans were members as well - within Chicago and principal rival of the Johnny Torrio–Al Capone organization, later known as the Chicago Outfit. Most of Ashton's time the previous day had been spent coordinating with high-level leaders of the gang in order to "borrow" fifteen experienced men for this particular job. A third of the money confiscated from the cash house hit, one full truck load, had also gone to the North Side Gang in order to compensate them for the losses that were sure to come from the ensuing fight. Ashton's only real concern was whether the men would respond to his orders when the time came.

The Minoan looked around the warehouse. The North Side gangsters were concealed on the first and second stories, their weapons at the ready. In a back room, Dublin worked feverishly with his toolkit on the eighteenth device, Alyssa holding a flashlight in nervous hands. At the rate they were going, they would still need another hour before they finished with them all. And they would soon be working with the distraction of bullets flying nearby.

One of Alyssa's informants came running into the warehouse, breathless. The boy's face was covered with sweat from his dash down the street. The teen held a hand to his ribs, rubbing away a stitch in his side.

"They're coming, sir," he wheezed. "Twenty of them. About two blocks away."

"Thank you, Gary," said Ashton. "Run along now. It won't be safe here."

"Yes, sir." The boy staggered in the opposite direction of the approaching danger.

Ashton stepped behind one of the many crates on the warehouse floor. One of the North Side men was nearby. Ashton nodded to him.

"Remind the boys not to shoot until I fire the first shot. Pass it along," he reminded the man.

The gangster nodded, eyeing the katana sheathed on Ashton's back before moving to tell his compatriots the message. Ashton grinned to himself. All of the North Side men were probably wondering why he, Dublin, and Alyssa were carrying swords as well as guns on this particular job. When one of them had asked about it earlier, Ashton had simply replied that, "Sometimes guns jam. You have to be prepared. Call us old fashioned." He had not explained anymore than that.

Ashton felt the approach of Carlton Pollack two minutes before he saw the first Chicago Outfit mobster cross the threshold of his warehouse. He crouched deeper into the shadows and waited. More men entered and spread out. He could make out the silhouette of Wiseman, clearly in charge, and Pollack, standing back from the rest, as the others followed their leader. All around him, Ashton could sense the North Side men slowly moving into firing positions.

"Ashton," bellowed Wiseman. "Come on out. We know you're here. There's no point in hiding. Come out and surrender now. Just tell us where the money is and there will be no need for a fight."

"A fight was inevitable long before now, Smarty," shouted Ashton. The echoing effect of the warehouse made it impossible to determine his location.

"Do you really think you can take on the likes of Al Capone and win? What kind of fool are you?"

"One who has won before he ever stepped into the fight, that's who." With that, Ashton stepped around the crate and fired at the first mobster he saw. Armed with a Thompson submachine gun, he sent a burst of .45 caliber rounds into the chest of the man ten meters away. His opening salvo unleashed a cacophony of unholy fury from a dozen firing points all around the warehouse. What the North Side men lacked in accuracy they made up in volume of fire. Three of Wiseman's men fell dead immediately and another four crumpled to the concrete floor with horrid wounds. The remainder scattered, firing their weapons at muzzle flashes as they sought cover.

Ashton ran into the open, heading straight for Carlton Pollack. A kneeling Chicago Outfit mobster swivelled from behind a column, training his Thompson at the running Immortal. The burst went wide. Ashton's return fire walked a horizontal line across the wall level with the man's forehead, splattering its contents across the cinder block. Ashton never stopped running.

Pollack knelt just outside of the warehouse, his attention focused on a large device the size of a bread box. The sound of footsteps caused him to raise his eyes. They widened in surprise as a Thompson submachine gun fired. The device in front of him shimmied from the impact of several bullets. Pollack leapt up, clawing at the pistol at his hip.

Ashton dropped his empty Thompson and drew his .45 from his holster, still on the run. He and Pollack met as they both had their pistols drawn. Each grasped the other's wrist, blocking the other from using their weapons.

"Hardly the way our kind fight each other, isn't it, Ashton?" sneered Pollack with a grin, his hand gripping Ashton's pistol arm tightly.

"Not exactly the right place, Pollack," replied Ashton, flicking his eyes back at the warehouse.

"Oh, but they're quite occupied at the moment, aren't they?" Pollack continued to grin and relaxed both of his hands. His own .45 fell to the ground. "My sword is over there." He nodded to the ruined radio detonator. "Just let me get it."

"Very well." Ashton let him go and stepped back, keeping a wary eye on him. His pistol was still trained on him. He did not holster it until Pollack was several meters away. He then holstered the pistol and drew his katana.

Pollack picked up a steel swept rapier from the pavement and drew it from its sheath. He took a few practice swings and sighed with delight.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"I'm at your disposal," answered Ashton.

The two men could be considered to be unevenly - or perhaps perfectly - matched as far as their weaponry was concerned. The katana is considered by many to be the greatest slashing weapon the eastern world has developed while the rapier is similarly considered to be the ideal thrusting blade of the west. Many think the weapons to be perfect counterparts to each other. The katana was designed for powerful killing strokes to the torso or head of an opponent; the rapier for fast, agile thrusts at unpredictable angles to targets of opportunity. Each man knew the strengths of the other's weapon. Who would win would, as always, come down to a matter of personal skill.

Ashton stood with the waters of Lake Michigan only a meter behind him. A cool breeze blew in over the water. Pollack moved in with a forward lunge. Unlike what is seen in Hollywood movies, most sword fights do not last long. There are typically one or two exchanges, perhaps three, and then it is over. To the amazement of both contenders, this did not occur here. Despite his accountant look, Pollack was very fast and quite adept with his rapier. By the third exchange, Ashton was bloodied, though only superficially, and had been forced to evade two of Pollack's attacks.

The fourth attack, however, proved Pollack to be overconfident. He thrust forward, forgetting both of their positioning. Ashton pivoted around him, sending an elbow strike into the back of the man's head. With a screech, Pollack went toppling into the cold waters of Lake Michigan. Rather then emerge immediately and leave himself open to a decapitating blow, he suffered the indignity of swimming several meters offshore before coming up for air.

"Fuck you, Ashton," he yelled back at the Minoan when he finally broke water.

"Not today, Pollack," said the Minoan, turning his back on the Englishman and walking back to the warehouse. Sheathing his katana, he picked up his Thompson and reached into a side pouch for another drum magazine.

The shooting had settled to occasional bursts by now. Ashton walked among the scattered bodies of fallen Chicago Outfit mobsters. Several of the injured had succumbed to their wounds. Others still moaned in pain and tried to either make themselves as small a target as possible or pull themselves behind cover. Keeping an eye out for the more able of the enemy, Ashton made his way through the wounded and kicked aside their weapons, much to their chagrin. He found two injured North Side Gang members as he searched the first story and pulled them to safer locations.

From the sound of things, all of the remaining gunplay was now on the second story. Ashton smirked. Wiseman and his men must have decided the best way to break an ambush was to charge directly into it. Not exactly a bad move. He made his way through the shadows to check on Dublin and Alyssa.

He found them in the back of the warehouse still working on the explosives. Blood stained the thigh of Dublin's left trouser leg. A glancing bullet wound, Ashton surmised. The injury must have healed by this point since it did not seem to slow him in the slightest. Dublin glanced up as Ashton entered the room.

"We're good," the Irishman announced. "Six more to go."

Ashton nodded and left them to their work. He walked quickly toward the staircase that led to the second story, passing a dead Outfit man as he moved. The gunfire had increased in intensity somewhat. He could only guess as to the reason.

He was two-thirds of the way of the stairs when he saw why. Wiseman and four of his men were engaged with the remaining three North Side Gang men and had them pinned down. Two North Side men lay dead on the floor; another crawled slowly away, a trail of blood in his wake. There was no way for the Outfit men to maneuver toward the North Side position without exposing themselves to fire. The North Side men continued to return occasional bursts of fire but could do nothing more. It was a stalemate.

Ashton ran up three more stairs and raised his Thompson to his shoulder, firing on the group of Outfit men, catching them on the flank. He fired a long burst into the side of a crouching man. The dying man toppled into Tony Wiseman who had stood to take an easy pistol shot at the wounded North Side gangster attempting to flee the firefight.

Infuriated, Wiseman turned to face the cause of his ruined shot. His eyes locked with those of David Ashton. The last thing he saw was the flaming burst of Ashton's Thompson as it fired. A line of .45 caliber rounds took him from throat to forehead. Nearly decapitated by the high caliber bullets, Wiseman's body crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll.

"Stand up and drop your weapons," ordered Ashton in a loud voice, his tone leaving no room for argument. He kept his weapon aimed at the remaining three Outfit men. The defeated men slowly rose from their crouch, their weapons held limply. Across the room, the North Side men slowly rose to see what had transpired.

Ashton saw the change in one of the Outfit men's expressions before he even spoke. He also was sure he did not have enough ammunition left to deal with the situation. With a scowl on his face, the Outfit mobster spat, "Fuck you," and raised his weapon. Ashton dove for the stairs as bullets filled the space where he had once been. As he slid down the staircase, he heard the curses and responding fire of the North Side Gang as the treacherous Outfit men were cut down.

Colliding with the body of the dead Outfit man on the stairs, Ashton's descent came to a halt. He pulled himself to his feet and looked back up at the second story. He waited a few seconds for the gashes on his shins to heal before ascending again.

"It's all clear up here, Mr. Ashton," called one of the North Side Gang. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just got the wind knocked out of me. I'm fine."

"Can't blame ya," replied the same man. "That was a close one. Thanks for bailin' us out of that, by the way. We thought we were goners."

Walking back up the stairs, Ashton answered, "No problem. Now let's get our dead and wounded out of here. I've got a clean up crew coming for the others. We need to be gone when they get here."

"Yeah, and I don't want to be here when the cops get here, either, or we'll all get pinched."

"Don't worry about that," said Ashton. "I took care of that problem. They won't be responding to our "noise complaint" for another two hours. We have plenty of time to vacate the premises."

"My God," marveled the North Side man. "You thought of everything."

Ashton smiled. "I've played this game before. Now let's get moving. You and the others take care of the dead and injured. I'm going to help Mr. Dublin and Ms. Cordeiro with the devices in the back."

"Yes, sir."

"And be sure to tell Mr. O'Malley that I approve the $5,000 bonus for all of you. There is also another $20,000 for the families of the men who died today."

The North Side man's eyes grew wide. "Holy shit. Thank you very much, sir."

"You men earned every penny today. Good work. And thank you."

xxxxxxxxxx

28 February 1929  
Chicago, Illinois  
Happiness Restaurant  
Fifth Avenue at 44th Street

Eddie O'Hare sat in his car, confused and a bit scared. He had not slept well the night before. No, not sense that damn phone call. He kept hearing snippets of the strange-accented voice in his head over and over again. It's not that it had been threatening. No, it hadn't. He thought he might have been more comfortable if it had been. He was used to mobsters, after all.

No, the guy on the other end with the funny accent hadn't threatened him in the slightest. He hadn't raised his voice or used any foul language. He had only asked about Eddie's business dealings, things that no one could possibly have known - Eddie supposed that could have been threatening enough - and then suggested that Eddie meet "a friend of yours" for an early lunch today at eleven.

"Why do I need to meet a friend for lunch?" Eddie had asked.

"Just to talk," the voice had replied.

"About what?"

"Whatever you like," said the voice.

"Are you shittin' me? You want me to go to this restaurant and meet some guy that I supposedly know for lunch and just talk? How do I know you're not setting me up for a hit?"

"I assure you, Eddie," promised the voice, "your safety is guaranteed while you are there."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"What time again?" asked Eddie, fumbling for a notepad.

"Eleven o'clock. Your friend will be waiting for you. You'll recognize him immediately."

"Alright. I'll be there," said Eddie. "And you say I can just talk about anything?"

"Whatever comes to your mind, Eddie. And order whatever you want for lunch. It's on me."

"Well, I guess thanks are in order for that, at least."

"You're the one who has my thanks, Eddie. It's the least I can do."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to right now, Eddie. It will all make sense later. Just take your time, enjoy the meal and the time with your friend. It's been a long time since you've seen him. You should catch up on old times."

"Hmmm, I guess I'll do that."

"Good. Have a pleasant meal, Eddie."

"Alright, I will. Thanks again."

"You're welcome. Good night, Eddie."

They had hung up after that. Eddie's restless night began, as well. By his count, he might have had four hours of fitful sleep in ten and fifteen minute snatches. He didn't have breakfast that morning save for a slice of toast and a cup of coffee. He was ravenous by now, though. Maybe his nervousness fed his appetite. He didn't know. He looked about through his windscreen and windows. He didn't see any wiseguys he recognized. Somehow, he still thought he was walking into a trap, a condemned man about to have his last meal, despite the voice's assurances to the contrary.

Eddie checked his watch. He had three minutes to go before eleven. Shaking his head to clear it, he opened the door and got out of the car. Shutting the door, he made his way to the restaurant's entrance and walked inside. He removed his hat and waited for his eyes to adjust to the lighting before scanning the room. True to the voice's promise, he instantly spotted the familiar face of John Rogers at a table against the wall. Smiling and waving, he walked over to the table.

"Hi, John," he said as he reached the table. "I was told I'd see you here. Or someone I knew, at least"

Rogers stood and shook O'Hare's hand. "Eddie. Good to see you, buddy. I was told to expect someone, as well, but not who it was. Just that it would be someone I knew. Sit down, old buddy. Tell me what you've been up to lately."

The two men sat. A waiter came over with menus and ice water. The lawyer and reporter simply eyed each other briefly. Then Eddie O'Hare spoke.

"I'm not really sure what to say."

"Whatever you like, my friend," said Rogers.

"Heh, that's pretty much what the voice on the phone said last night, too."

"Well, I guess that's a good place to start, then," prompted Rogers.

Eddie O'Hare glanced around the restaurant. The chatter of the other patrons easily drowned out anything he might say, he decided. He began to talk. He started with his dealing with Owen Smith and his divorce from Selma. He talked about his son, Butch, and the boy's aspirations to go to the Naval Academy. After ordering their meals, he even opened up about his business dealings with Al Capone and his concerns about his future and the future of his son, especially how Butch could get into the Academy with a mob lawyer as a father. Before they knew it, an hour had passed and they had hardly touched their food.

John Rogers sat back in his chair, his expression pensive. He sipped his coffee as he thought. As he set his cup back down, he replied, "That's a hell of a story, Eddie. Strangely, I think I know a way you can clear up some of your problems. I actually have a guy who's about to join me for lunch, also, if you don't mind meeting him. He could help with Butch. You would have to do a few things for some associates of mine, though."

"At this point, John, I'm willing to do anything to help myself and Butch."

"Good," said Rogers. Looking up, he smiled and stood. "Here he is now." He gestured to the white-haired man in a suit who had just approached them. "Eddie O'Hare, I would like you to meet Representative John J. Cochran, Congressman from Missouri."

xxxxxxxxxx

28 February 1929

Calumet City, Illinois

"So, you've had your people meet Eddie O'Hare. What do you think will come of it?" asked Alyssa.

"From the sound of it," interjected Dublin before Ashton could answer, "I think Eddie is going to flip on Capone and the guy will come crashing down as a result."

Ashton sipped his Scotch and nodded. "That's pretty much what I was expecting, yes."

"But if Capone goes down, won't that ruin you in Chicago?" she queried.

"Not really," replied the Minoan. "He's just one gangster running alcohol in the city. There are others and I have connections with them all. Someone will replace him."

Ashton took another sip of his drink and eyed the dark liquid with a contemplative expression. "Besides, Prohibition in this country is only going to last for a few more years, at best. I'd be shocked if it were still here five years from now."

"You really think that?" Alyssa asked.

"Don't try betting against him," Dublin warned. "You'll lose."

"Really? Will I?"

"Aye, you will. He's already got short sells in on a lot of the major companies in the stock market. He says they'll be bankrupt by the end of the year."

Alyssa's jaw dropped. "But the stock market is booming."

Ashton smiled. "Wait and watch."

Alyssa grinned at him. "Don't tell me you're manipulating that like you did events here, too."

"Hah!" laughed Ashton. "I don't have to. It's being done for me. All one has to do is know what's happening and how such matters always turn out. A crash is coming, Alyssa. A big one."

"And you're going to gain from it?"

"He always does," said Dublin.

"But how?" she asked.

"Because everytime someone loses, another wins," said Ashton. "If you know what to look for in advance, you can be prepared for what happens. And just like when Prohibition came, I plan to be prepared when this crash comes."

"Well, then it sounds like we should have one hell of a new year's eve party to celebrate it, then," she suggested.

"That's not a bad idea," Ashton responded. "I think that's also a good time to introduce you to Johnny. I think the two of you will get along swimmingly."

xxxxxxxxxx

Author's Note: In 1930, Eddie O'Hare turned state's evidence against Al Capone. He turned over substantial financial records to the Internal Revenue Service which enabled them to arrest Capone for tax evasion. In 1931, Capone was convicted of criminal tax evasion. He served two years in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary and six more on Alcatraz Island. He was finally released in January 1939. Eddie O'Hare was assassinated on 8 November 1939.

Butch O'Hare was nominated for a billet and successfully admitted to the United States Naval Academy in 1933. He graduated and was appointed an ensign in the United States Navy in 1937. He became a Navy pilot in 1940. On 26 March 1942, during World War II, he became the first naval aviator to receive the Medal of Honor, the highest United States decoration for valor, for actions in combat a month earlier. Lieutenant Commander Edward Henry "Butch" O'Hare was killed in action on 26 November 1943. Today, Chicago's O'Hare International Airport is named after E.H. "Butch" O'Hare.

xxxxxxxxxx

26 June 2005

Mahmudiyah, Iraq

FOB Saint Michael

Specialist Morgan sat back to review his work on the latest fragmentary order to go out to the battalion. A fragmentary order (or FRAGO, for short) was a change or addition to a commander's original operations order (OPORD or OPORDER). Due to the fluidity of the situation on the ground, one of Morgan's many tasks was to publish a daily update to the battalion commander's OPORD since arriving in Mahmudiyah. Of course, Morgan didn't develop the order himself. He merely transcribed it from information given to him by the battalion staff officers, but that was often enough to keep him busy for a significant part of each day. To his credit, he was often asked for input on changes (he liked that).

As he read his latest inputs, he stroked his head absentmindedly. He had been doing this all morning ever since his visit to the local national who acted as a barber for headquarters company. Ever since the rotation to the National Training Center in California, Sergeant First Class Lang had been suggesting to him that he shave his head. Lang's first statement to Morgan was that his receding hairline made him look like he was forty-five. This had come as quite a shock to the twenty-nine year old. Finally, that morning, Morgan had asked the barber to use his smallest guard and trim his hair as short as possible. Morgan wanted to see what he would look like with his head almost shaved. If, he thought, he could deal with that, he would take Lang's advice.

The first look in the mirror had been surprising. All of his brown hair was gone. Only his eyebrows remained. At the time, he had run his fingers over his scalp, feeling the barely visible hair that still covered half his skull. He did have to admit that he looked several years younger as a result, but he wasn't sure he liked losing his hair to do it. He decided he would give it a day or two before making a final decision.

The Tenth Mountain Division had been gone for almost two weeks now. Morgan had learned a few things about the new area of operations. For one thing, the sand was like talcum powder and got into everything. It also had an abrasive quality to the nasal passages. Everyone was getting nosebleeds and blowing out huge wads of bloody snot.

Also, one day, Morgan had read in an edition of Stars and Stripes about a horrific area in Iraq known as "the Triangle of Death" and how it had battered every unit that had been assigned there. He had thought to himself that he had already decided the location where his battalion had been assigned was bad but at least he wasn't at that terrible place. The very next day, he had learned that the three FOBs his battalion occupied, Mahmudiyah, Yusifiyah, and Lutifiyah, were the three points of that very triangle. _Well,_ he had thought, _this is certainly I won't be mentioning in my emails back home._

"Alright, Yul Brynner," said Captain Bunt with a smile as he strolled back into the operations office, "how's that FRAGO coming along?"

"It's finished, sir," answered Morgan, sitting up in his chair and pulling his earbuds from his ears. Setting them on the table next to his iPod, he said, "Just proofreading it now."

"Good. Email it out to the commanders when you're done and let's go to dinner."

"Oh? You're actually going this time?" asked Barrett. Usually the two officers stayed back at the office to work at dinner time and Bunt asked Morgan to bring him a takeout plate from the dining facility.

"Yeah, it's time I got out of here for a change."

"I guess I'll go, too, then," said Barrett.

"Well, give me a few minutes, then, and I'll be ready," grinned Morgan.

"Sure, take your time," answered Bunt.

A shadow crossed Morgan's laptop. He looked up and to his left. Lieutenant Colonel Rey stood in the doorway, grinning.

"So," said the colonel, "how are my ops bitches doing today?"

Morgan chuckled softly as Captain Bunt replied, "The usual awesome, sir. Just about to send out the daily FRAGO."

"Nice," commented Rey. "That's what I like to hear." His smile slowly faded as his eyes fell on Morgan's iPod. The device was still playing and the music could be faintly heard in the room. Morgan glanced at the screen despite knowing the tune. Linkin Park's _Breaking the Habit_ was playing.

"What kind of shit is that you're playing, Morgan?"

Morgan glanced up at Rey and opened his mouth to answer. Captain Bunt beat him to it. "Oh, come on, sir. Let him enjoy his music. I'm sure you listen to music sometimes while you're working."

Rey pointed at the iPod. "I don't listen to death music like that. My mama hugged me as a child."

Morgan couldn't help himself. He was familiar with John Rey's sense of humor and this kind of comment was very much in line with it. He burst out laughing. His reaction was contagious immediately and the three officers joined him without restraint. Rey clapped Morgan on the back and walked out, still chuckling to himself.

Morgan shook his head, still grinning, and kept working. He was finished with his proofreading in three minutes and had the email sent to the commanders in one more.

"Ready, sir," he announced, reaching for his body army, helmet, and rifle.

The sun was low in the sky as they walked, chatting about plans for the next day. Morgan's gaze drifted to his right, distracted by the sight of a female soldier exiting the first story of the chicken factory. The first story was used for billeting soldiers of the support and maintenance platoons of headquarters company. The young specialist who had just run out was clad, seemingly, in just a long t-shirt reaching down to mid-thigh, which was what had caught Morgan's attention. It was a rare moment that he saw a female in such attire. Even less often that he saw one with the expression she wore: of panic. He stopped walking and watched her.

"Captains," he called, his tone still conversationally calm. The two officers, still strolling, stopped as well, and looked. They now saw what Morgan saw. Behind the female specialist, a thin cloud of smoke was billowing from inside the building.

"How bad?" asked Barrett to the young soldier.

"The whole floor is on fire," she replied, her eyes wide.

"Okay," he said. "Go."

"If it's that bad," pondered Bunt, "then we need to clear out the ops office and the TOC."

"Right," said Morgan, turning to head back inside.

"Wait," interrupted Barrett. "Give me your weapon. It will just slow you down." He looked about. Pointing, he said, "That conex container over there is empty. We can store what you two bring down inside it. I'll keep your weapon there and stand guard by it so no one says you abandoned it."

"Right. Thanks," acknowledged Morgan, handing over his rifle. He proceeded at a jog back into the building, Captain Bunt right behind him.

The TOC staff were visibly busy down the hall already breaking down the equipment in their area. Morgan and Bunt nodded to each other. There would be no need for them to assist there. They could focus on their work area. They entered their office and began packing up their individual work stations. Morgan went back down with a full backpack, his laptop, and his humidor. Barrett laughed at the sight.

"Sensitive items first, eh?"

Returning the laugh, Morgan replied, "Exactly."

Between the two of them, Bunt and Morgan had the ops office empty in three more trips, including furniture. They stood with Barrett for a while watching as the chaos around them continued to build. The flames in the first floor were visible from outside now and were spreading along the length of the building. The smoke was slowly turning from its original grey to a more forboding black. Soldiers ran in all directions, some with purpose and some without. Above the scene of the inferno, three Blackhawk helicopters circled the FOB. On the ground, an officer, Captain Ben Sharmain, maintained radio contact with the pilots.

For the first time since the fire had begun, Morgan had a moment to think about the secondary effects of the event. The FOB had been hit by mortar or rocket fire on a daily basis since the battalion's arrival. If ever there was an opportunity for insurgents to attack the FOB, either by mortars or by a massed attack, this was it. He glanced at Captain Sharmain again. He suspected that was the reason for the man's communication with the helicopters in the first place. Off in the distance, Morgan heard a CRUMPH; the sound of a mortar that had missed, a bad miss. He looked up. One of the Blackhawks pivoted in midair. He heard a BRRP as a minigun spat briefly. The bird hovered for a moment and then resumed its circling pattern. Morgan grinned. _One down._

"Hey," called a nearby soldier. "Could some of you guys help us clear out the supply room?"

Bunt and Morgan moved to answer the man's request. They spent the better part of the next hour along with several other soldiers moving equipment out of the building. Rank and position were immaterial at this point. Officers and enlisted men grunted and sweated side by side to clear the huge room of all the battalion's equipment. As they worked, they caught glimpses of other soldiers lowering the AN/TPQ-36 Firefinder radar from the roof of the chicken factory. That was certainly one piece of equipment they didn't want to lose. It helped the artillery platoon attached to the battalion locate the positions of the insurgent mortar teams that fired on the three FOBs and enabled them to place effective counterfire back on them in record time.

When the supply room was empty, there was not much more Bunt and Morgan could do but rejoin Barrett and watch the chicken factory burn. The flames were especially bright now that night had fallen. All around the three men, others of the battalion had also finally stopped and stood in place, staring in stunned wonderment as the centerpiece of the FOB went up in flames.


	32. Bloodletting

Author's Note: The timeline of events of the London bombings as described here is taken from the Wikipedia article wiki/Timeline_of_the_2005_London_bombings.

"The ladder starts to clatter  
With a fear of height, down, height  
Wire in a fire, represent the seven games  
And a government for hire and a combat site  
Left her, wasn't coming in a hurry  
With the Furies breathing down your neck"

"It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" - R.E.M.

07 July 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"Attention in the TOC!" called Alan Weatheral as David Ashton entered the room.

"As you were," replied Ashton immediately, a trace of a smirk on his features.

"You're early, sir," stated Weatheral matter-of-factly. "It's barely eight forty-five."

"There's a lot of the docket today, Alan. I thought I'd get down to it rather then fooling around all morning."

There was a grumbling of lighthearted laughter around the TOC at the comment. Anyone who thought the brigadier "fooled around" at anyone was clearly deluded.

"What's the latest on the X37 testing?"

Weatheral grinned. "It looks like it will be a good weapon. The boys have been having fun with it. We'll have a range demonstration for it next week so you can see it in action. A full write up will follow."

Ashton nodded. "And the Farid search?"

Weatheral's expression dimmed. "Not as good. We've rattled a lot of cages since the raid, but come up short. There's been a great deal of cell phone chatter but no sightings whatsoever. We're starting to think he's left the country again."

Another nod from Ashton. "I've been thinking the same. The question is where this time?"

"And what sort of trouble will he stir up while he's there?" asked a voice from behind Ashton. The Minoan turned to see Colonel Harrington standing there.

"Hello, Niles," Ashton greeted with a grin. "Spying on me again?"

"Just keeping tabs on where the boss is, like a good XO."

Ashton chuckled. "Can't argue with that." He clapped the colonel on the shoulder and ushered him into the room.

Ignoring the banter between the two officers, Jack Connelly turned back to his workstation and studied its readout. He perused its updated information and frowned. "Uh oh," he muttered, hitting a key to bring the readout onto the main screen of the TOC. "Gentlemen," he announced in a louder voice, "I think you should see this."

Ashton and Harrington turned to look at the screen. Weatheral, sipping his ever present cup of coffee, did the same. All three silently absorbed the words before them.

INCIDENT BETWEEN LIVERPOOL STREET AND ALDGATE TUBE STATIONS.

"Anything more on that, Jack?"

"Nothing yet, Sergeant Major. Working on it. They're not sure if it's a collision or an explosion."

Across the room, Ashton chilled. Harrington spoke the words he was thinking. "This is how New York started. First there were reports of an accident, then it got worse. Stay on it, please, Jack."

"Yes, sir."

Valentin Dumitrescu entered the room, his notebook in hand. "Mr. Ashton, your first appointment is in ten minutes."

"Clear the day, Val," said Ashton evenly, pointing as the screen. "My place is here right now."

Glancing up at the monitor, Val blanched. "Yes, sir. I'll get on that. I'll clear the rest of this week and the next, just in case."

"Thank you, Val," acknowledged Ashton.

"That's a good man you have there," commented Harrington after Dumitrescu had left.

"One of the best," said Ashton. "Worth his weight in gold, for sure." He tread purposely over to the coffee maker. "Now, let's see just how good the vaunted TOC coffee actually is while we wait for more information. Just ignore us, gentlemen. Proceed as if we were not here."

"We always do, sir," chided Weatheral.

xxxxxxxxxx

The flow of information was agonizingly slow for the first half hour. After that, it did not stop for almost twenty minutes. One report from a Metronet Tube operator around nine thirty said the incident may have been caused by some sort of power surge. Minutes later, there were reports of an incident at Edgware Road tube station that passengers on a train hit by an explosion attempted to break windows with umbrellas in order to escape. Fifteen minutes after that, British Transport Police announced there had been more explosions at King's Cross, Old Street, Moorgate, and Russell Square. Almost immediately, there was word of an explosion on the number thirty bus travelling between Marble Arch and Hackney Wick at Upper Woburn Place and Tavistock Square. Within two minutes, an announcement was made that the entire London Underground system had been shut down.

Ashton checked his watch. "Not even ten o'clock." He began tapping notes into a computer tablet.

Ten minutes later, they heard a report stating the National Grid had no problem with power surges that morning. They could not have been the cause of any of the problems with the underground trains. Ashton and Harrington looked meaningfully at each other and nodded, but said nothing. Ashton continued writing notes in his tablet.

The presence of several approaching Immortals made Ashton look up from his work. He caught Weatheral's eye and made a subtle hand signal. Weatheral nodded.

"All non-class one personnel please vacate the TOC until further notice. Thank you." The sergeant major stood silently and watched as several members of the staff, about half, picked up their belongings and left the room. There were still plenty remaining to accomplish the necessary work at the moment. When the room was clear, he went to the doorway and looked out. Spotting Sergeant Major Dublin in the hallway, he waved him in. Dublin brought the others out of hiding and entered the TOC. Johnny, Tristan, and Alyssa accompanied him.

"I see you've heard," said Ashton.

"Yeah," replied Johnny. "It was on the radio. Couldn't miss it."

Tristan looked up at the main monitor and visibly shivered. Fortunately, there were still no photographs of what had happened, only text. This did not seem to comfort him in any way. He walked slowly over to a chair and sat, tears slipping down his cheeks.

The others took seats as well, quietly reading over the TOC logs to catch up on what had happened thus far. There was more there than what had been reported by the media, but not much. Conversation seemed out of place so they all sat and stared at the monitors in silence, waiting for the next update.

When the next report came at ten forty that morning, it startled everyone in the room. A government source officially spoke of at least twenty people dead as a result of bombings. Twenty minutes later, bus services across central London were suspended. They then listened as the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Ian Blair, confirmed fears that it was a coordinated terror attack, but appealed for calm, asking people not to travel to London or make unnecessary calls to the emergency services.

When the commissioner had finished speaking, Tristan slowly swiveled around in his chair. The boy's eyes were red from tears. His voice was barely under control as he spoke. "I wanted to stop this," he stated, fighting his own body to prevent a breakdown. "It's my fault those people died."

"No, no, Tristan," replied Ashton, standing from his chair. He walked around his table and knelt by the quivering Immortal boy. He placed a reassuring hand on Tristan's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "You are the hero today. This could have been a hundredfold worse. Because of you, hundreds, even a thousand people are alive today because you intervened. Remember what that recording said back then? Farid wanted to detonate a hundred bombs today. Instead, he got, how many, Jack?"

"Four, sir."

"Four. Because of you, one boy, he was not able to do that. Because of you, we kept him from bringing in hundreds of jihadis to move into the city as suicide bombers and we captured almost two hundred of his devices. The people of London owe you their lives today, Tristan, and they don't even know it. All because one boy was relaxing in a tree and thought enough to record some men on his cell phone."

Tristan grinned through his tears. "I had a lot of lucky breaks after that, though. If I hadn't met Alyssa or Johnny or any of you, none of this would have happened."

Ashton shrugged. "Regardless. It happened. Call it divine, if you like. No matter the reason, it did happen and today's events, as bad as they are, have been significantly reduced because you were involved. And I thank you for it."

Finally unable to contain himself, a sob broke from Tristan's throat. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Ashton's neck, burying his face in the man's shoulder. Ashton pulled the boy to him.

"Thank you," whispered Tristan, "for everything."

"It's my honor, Tristan. I admire your courage. Keep it up now. We need you now more than ever."

Tristan nodded into Ashton's shoulder and slowly pushed himself back, sniffing softly. He nodded again and wiped his nose with the back of his arm. "I'll do anything you ask of me, David," he said.

"That's my boy," replied Ashton, mussing his hair. "Now let's steel ourselves for the rest of this day. More news is coming. We have to be ready for it."

Half an hour passed slowly with only repeats of the same information they already had. Then the Prime Minister, Tony Blair, came on the air and spoke for three minutes, calling the bombings a coordinated series of barbaric terrorist attacks and stating he would leave the G8 Summit in Scotland in order to meet with first responders on the scene. Within minutes of him walking away from the podium and out of sight of the cameras, the emergency line in the TOC rang. Weatheral stared at it suspiciously.

"Any bets on who that might be?" he asked.

Ashton chuckled as he stood. "I wouldn't want to place any wagers on that myself," he answered, picking up the receiver. "NextGen Operations Center, Brigadier Ashton speaking," he said evenly.

Everyone in the room waited.

"Yes, Mr. Prime Minister," replied Ashton.

"Dammit, David, you know you can call me Tony."

"Yes, of course, Tony. Force of habit."

"Right, right. You saw the news?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right, I'm getting on a plane in a few hours to head back there. I can't do much, of course, but walk around and look pretty for the cameras. I expect your guys are already all over this?"

"Naturally."

"And you expect this if Aadam Farid's work?"

"We do," stated Ashton flatly.

"Of course, the CCTV footage we find is going to likely identify the people who detonated these devices today. What about them and the people who ordered them to do it? What do you think about them?"

"Based on what we know of Farid and his methods, he would have had a back up plan and would have initiated it after our last raid on his farmhouse last month. They will be mostly unknowns, along with a few well-known agitators but, overall, they will be small fish. Patsies."

"Patsies? So you still think Farid is the real threat?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Alright, then. In that case, David, regardless of everything else we do on the official side, I want you NextGen fellows to track down and terminate Aadam Farid and everyone associated with him. Is that understood? I don't care about the cost. Send me a bill and I'll deal with the MoD later. You'll have whatever resources you need."

"Yes, sir. Understood."

"Thank you, David."

"Yes, sir. And thank you."

"Good luck, David. Out here."

"Goodbye, Tony."

Ashton set the receiver back in its cradle. He raised his eyes back to the expectant faces of the TOC personnel.

"We have a mission direct from the Prime Minister," he said. "A blank check. Track down and terminate Aadam Farid and all his associates. Any resources we need will be made available to us."

"Oh, shit," commented Jack.

"That's right, Jack, my boy," said Alan Weatheral. "Tony Blair just declared war on Aadam Farid."

xxxxxxxxxx

The total death count of the attacks grew to fifty-one by the end of the day. At least seven hundred had been injured by the four blasts. Half of them were treated on site while the rest were evacuated to nearby hospitals. One of them later died from wounds, bringing the final death total to fifty-two.

As Ashton had predicted, the bombers themselves were all, as Charles Clarke, the Home Secretary, described them, "cleanskins," meaning they had all been previously unknown to authorities until they carried out their attacks. Two of the bombers had left videotaped statements giving their reasons for the attacks. One of them, Mohammad Sidique Khan, stated, "We are at war and I am a soldier. Now you too will taste the reality of this situation." There were also reports that a radical imam, Anwar al-Awlaki, had inspired the bombers. Several transcriptions of the imam's lectures had been found among the bombers' possessions.

On 12 July, over six hundred residents in the Burley area of the city of Leeds were forced to evacuate their homes and were unable to return for two days after it was confirmed that explosives were found in the area. Two hours later, a controlled explosion was carried out to neutralize the devices. Army and police investigators then examined other evidence in the area.

NextGen stepped up its intelligence gathering and analysis over the next ten days. While Britain's police and army searched for men with backpacks, NextGen searched for the men behind those men. The work tempo of the analysts grew to such a point that supervisors had to begin ordering them to go home every evening to keep them from burning out. This order still did not prevent the majority of them from working twelve to fourteen hour days anyway. After two weeks, when four more small explosions on the London Underground, and on London buses on route twenty-six, occurred, despite countless man hours and reams of materials analyzed, there was still frustratingly little to show for the work. Aadam Farid, Charles Steyn, and Carlton Pollack still could not be found.

xxxxxxxxxx

22 July 2005

Mahmudiyah, Iraq

Sergeant Timothy Strickman ordered his driver, recently promoted Specialist Jason Dealer, to halt the HMMWV. It was time to stop driving and walk around for a while, at least for Strickman and Specialist Jay, and press the flesh with the locals. The other scouts in the follow-on HMMWVs would do the same, leaving their drivers and gunners in place, just in case.

Specialist Jay heaved open the heavy door and hopped out of his seat. He reached back inside the vehicle for the "gift bag" and slung it over his shoulder. The bag was Lieutenant Colonel Rey's idea for spreading good cheer among the local children. With soccer - or football, as it was known here - being the national sport, the bag was full of soccer balls. Ever since the Tenth Mountain Division had vacated the area of operations, the 180th Armor Battalion had been distributing soccer balls - along with hard candy - to the youth whenever they had gone out on their patrols in the cities. Thus far, this action had elicited many smiles and thumbs-up from local children.

Sergeant Strickman came up alongside Jay. Their local national interpreter, known only as "Max," with a balaclava over his face and sunglasses over his eyes, joined the pair. "Max" was wore a set of chocolate-chip fatigues, a stark contrast to the grayish-green of the American's digital camouflage, but was unarmed. It was the duty of the scouts to protect him.

Children approached the trio immediately, smiles on their dirty faces. They babbled at the men excitedly and loudly in Arabic and broken English. Strickman patted several on the head, laughing and telling them to slow down. "Max" said the same in Arabic. One child, however, was not as jubilant. He slowly worked his way up to Strickman and tugged on the sergeant's sleeve. Strickman looked down at the youngster, who couldn't have been more than twelve.

"Hello, little man," Strickman greeted with a broad grin.

"Meestah, Ali Baba ees in that house over there." The boy pointed discreetly at a house across the street, using his body to screen his gesture.

Keeping his expression unchanged, Strickman eyed the boy closer. Ali Baba was a term the locals often used to mean "bad man." Strickman recognized the boy from a previous visit. They had given him a soccer ball last week. The boy even wore the same striped t-shirt he had that day. Strickman queried further. "Which house? The blue house or the one with the gate?"

"Gated house," replied the boy.

Like many cavalry scouts, Strickman had the gift of an excellent memory. The boy's name came back to him.

"Thank you, Masood," he said, slipping a piece of candy into the boy's hand and patting him on the head.

"Thank you, meestah," replied the boy, smiling innocently and running off.

Strickman did not report the news immediately. He spent several minutes interacting with the children and snatching glances at the gated house. After fifteen minutes, he stepped away and walked back to the HMMWV. He sat in the commander's seat and took off his helmet, making a show of mopping his brow with a small towel. He spoke quietly as he did so, being careful to mask his mouth with the towel or arm strokes to his sweat-soaked eyes.

"Dealer, get on the radio and tell the other vehicles that we have intel on insurgents located in the gated house across the street from us. Half of the platoon is to collapse and make their way across the block and form an outer cordon around the house. Once they are in place, the other half will join us and we will form an inner cordon and enter the house. Don't be too obvious about it. Got it?"

"Roger, Sergeant."

"Okay, I'm going back now."

Strickman put his helmet back on his head. He stood and stretched. With a sigh of relief, he walked back to Jay and "Max" as if nothing was wrong with the world.

Twenty minutes later, a scout from the platoon signaled from a block away that the outer cordon was in place. Strickman nodded. He had already briefed "Max" and Jay in whispered snatches earlier. With a word, he informed them to get ready. "Max" told the assembled children and youths to scatter. They did so immediately, having grown used to violence in their lives. Looking about, Strickman caught a glimpse of his platoon leader, Lieutenant Lyle Menendez, and nodded again. Menendez acknowledged him and signaled to the rest of the platoon to move. Strickman, Jay, and the remainder of the scout platoon ran to form an inner cordon around the gated house.

By Western standards, the house was not much at all. A crumbling two-story mud brick establishment of perhaps twelve hundred square meters of living space with a similarly built outer wall and front and rear gate, it was palatial by Iraqi standards. The sixteen men of the scout platoon formed a loose cordon around the structure in little time while half of them, including Strickman and Jay, peeled off to breech to front gate. To their fortune, it was standing unlocked and unguarded. The men entered quickly, on the alert for armed opponents. There were none.

Forming a stack by the front door, the front man kicked open the door and the rest entered swiftly. Strickman was the third to enter. Strickman heard a door slam somewhere in the rear of the building. In front of him, one man held up his hands in surrender. The lead man of the stack was already throwing him to the ground and securing his hands behind him with flex-cuffs. Strickman and the others searched the rest of the building. In the distance, he heard a single shotgun blast.

It was over in minutes. Two men had surrendered without a fight. Both had been cuffed and would be taken back to the FOB for interrogation. Now came the hard part: the physical search of the building. The men settled in for what could be hours of sweaty work.

The scouts had learned a lot in their short time in Mahmudiyah, however. The tell-tale signs of hidden caches, for example, had been made clear to them by now. Here, they struck gold. Beneath the floor of a reinforced compartment of the second story they found over three hundred various bomb-making components and other weapons. Jackpot.

Strickman and "Max" were taking photographs of the weapons find when their platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Richard Bader, a perpetually-smiling black man who never lacked for a joke, walked into the room. He held a leather-bound notebook in one hand.

"I'm glad I found you guys," he said, grinning as always. "We found something on the guy who tried to run. He didn't want to give this up."

"He's still alive?" asked Strickman. "I heard a shotgun go off."

"Oh, he ran right into Staff Sergeant Seibert's blast, but he's still alive alright. Ol' Abu Buckshot's a tough cookie. Anyway, he had this book in his pocket but we can't make a thing of it. Figured "Max" could tell us what it says."

Bader proffered the book to "Max" and waited. "Max" took the worn notebook from the sergeant and examined it carefully, noting the smeared droplets of blood on its cover. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the buttoned front of his jacket. He flipped through its pages casually before opening it to a random page and beginning to read silently. A moment later, the man's eyes widened noticeably. He flipped to other pages and read further. He then read another page and gasped audibly.

"Well, what is it?" asked Strickman.

"This…this is account book. This is account book of payoffs and contacts and financiers and appointments. Everyone in Baghdad area is here. Big names. Foreign names. Important people. Lots of money. Account numbers. Everything."

"Holy shit," said Bader, his smile vanishing for once.

"Hey, guys," exclaimed Specialist Jay as he bounded into the room. "You'll never guess who the guy in the front room is."

Bader, Strickman, and "Max" turned to face him. Jay was grinning ear to ear. "Lieutenant Menendez just matched him against the most wanted list. The guy is the Iranian bomb maker who's been making the EFPs." EFPs were explosive-formed projectiles, a devastating type of explosive device which had been defeating the armor of coalition vehicles, even some M1A1 tanks, in Iraq.

"Wow!" said Bader. "We really did hit it big today."

"And all because of soccer balls," chuckled Strickman.

"Yeah," laughed Bader. "All because the boss had the balls to hand out some balls."

The scouts enjoyed a laugh together until they noticed "Max" staring at a page in the notebook.

"What's the problem, "Max?"" asked Strickman.

"There is name here I do not know. Many I do but this one, no. Is strange to me. Maybe your people know him. Aadam el-Farid. He make big contribution and meet with this man recently. Says working in area with Hakim Al-Ghamdi. Supposed to meet again in a few weeks. You know them?"


	33. The First Cut

"The first cut is the deepest, baby I know

The first cut is the deepest

'cause when it comes to being lucky she's cursed

when it comes to lovin' me she's worst

but when it comes to being loved she's first

that's how I know"

"The First Cut Is the Deepest" - Cat Stevens (Performed by Sheryl Crow)

24 July 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"Brigadier?"

Colonel Harrington stood in the doorway of Ashton's office, awaiting a summons to enter. The Minoan looked up from reading a report on his desk and waved the colonel inside.

"Yes, what is it, Niles?"

Harrington stepped inside and shut the door. He took a seat in front of Ashton's desk before speaking. Despite his stoic expression and poise, Ashton sensed excitement in the man.

"We just got a report in the TOC through channels from Iraq. It seems a unit of the Georgia National Guard has stumbled upon a lead on Aadam Farid's whereabouts. They captured an Iranian bomb maker and the financier of the Baghdad area in a raid two days ago. That financier had a notebook stating that both Aadam el-Farid and Hakim Al-Ghamdi were operating in the Mahmudiyah area of Iraq."

Ashton sat up a little straighter in his chair. "Mahmudiyah?" he repeated, putting the slight K sound in the H of the word. He blinked as Harrington nodded. He stood and walked over to a large map of the country posted on his wall. Harrington joined him. After a moment, Ashton pointed at the city's location. He grinned slightly and whistled.

"So, _Zawbiea_ (Whirlwind)," he stated, using a nickname for Farid, "is in the Triangle of Death. How fitting for him." He looked at the map for a few seconds longer. "A National Guard unit, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's like assigning one of our territorial units to control Basra," he said. "Quite a responsibility for what the Americans call a bunch of "weekend warriors.""

"Well, sir, these weekend warriors have already turned the mood of the local population in their favor, something the active duty Army and Marines have not been able to do since the war began."

"Have they? Quite impressive. I should like to meet their commander. He seems like he'd be quite an interesting man."

"What are your orders, sir?"

"Mobilize teams one, two and three of Bravo Company and two of their sniper teams." Ashton checked the date on his watch. "We go wheels up on the twenty-eighth."

"Will your "special assistant" be tagging along again?" Harrington asked, referring to Sather.

Ashton smirked. "I don't think I'd be able to stop him. Include him on the roster and the drills, too. If he's to be part of this, he'll join the boys tomorrow morning."

xxxxxxxxxx

24 July 2005

Hereford, England

Sather Residence

"You're damn right, I'm going with you," said Sather later that evening. Next to him, Vivia rolled her eyes and slumped back on the couch. Sather looked over at her.

"Come on, Viv. Please don't give me that reaction again. I thought you would understand this especially with your own martial background."

"It's not that I don't understand your reasons, Dev," she replied, sitting up again. "I just don't like how cavalier you're being with your own life. For God's sake, you're thirty-two. It's not like you're a young man anymore. And, just in case you haven't noticed, you also haven't been keeping up with the kind of fitness levels you did when you were a SEAL."

Sather grinned at her. "I work out with the old man and his guys in the mornings. I kept up with everyone else out there in Afghanistan last year. I held my own."

"And you also got shot to hell. I heard about the state of your body armor from some of the others on the team. It was shredded. One more shot in the wrong place and you'd be dead or crippled now."

"The point, though, is I'm not. The body armor worked. It kept me alive and unhurt. It will protect me again. I'll be fine, Viv."

Waving a hand, the Scythian woman retorted, "Do what you like. Just don't be surprised if I'm not here when you get back. I might be. I might not. It depends on how bored I get."

"Viv," Sather huffed. "This is going to be hard enough without you playing the part of travel agent for guilt trips while I'm gone."

"Whatever," she grumbled.

xxxxxxxxxx

26 July 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Training Ranges

The village was constructed of steel panels, each building consisting of layers of wood, gravel fill, and steel core in order to contain the splatter of live ammunition fragments. Dubbed simply "the shoot house," the village was the primary location for NextGen's military operations in urban terrain (MOUT) training. Today was live-fire training for the three mobilizing teams and the shoot house would bear the brunt of it.

Ashton, Dublin, and Jack Middleton, the operations and training officer, stood on the metal walkway atop the second story of the village's third building, that morning's target for the operation. From there, they had a clear view down into the target area below. The three wore dragonskin body armor and ballistic helmets, if only for show. Despite the immortality of two of them, they were all fully confident in the discipline and professionalism of the teams who would be entering the building today. These men would not be firing above their heads and endangering the observers.

"Team one on the way," announced Middleton, looking up from his clipboard. Five hundred meters away, they could see three Light Multirole Vehicles (LMVs), similar in appearance to the American HMMWV, approaching at high speed.

"How fast do you think they're going?" asked Middleton.

"I'd say about a hundred kilometers per hour," said Dublin.

"That gives the enemy eighteen seconds of reaction time from the moment they came over the ridgeline, then," added Ashton.

As the three men placed earplugs in their ears, Middleton spoke into the radio transceiver on his shoulder. "Go hot."

Three seconds later, two man-sized targets popped up in the middle of the road. The gunner of the first vehicle spotted them instantly and trained his weapon on them. He did not fire. The targets went down four seconds later.

"He identified the civilians," stated Dublin.

"A good start," said Middleton.

Six seconds later, the vehicles were pulling to a halt in front of the target building. The vehicles' gunners traversed their weapons to cover the roof, door, and alleyways. Three doors opened on each vehicle and disgorged a man. The man on the far side of each, the vehicle commander, ran to the other side to join those on the near side of the building. The man from the rear seat peeled off to join each vehicle commander while the driver of each LMV stayed with the vehicle, pulling security with the gunner. Arranging themselves in a pre-rehearsed stack alongside the front of the building, the second man in the line stepped out and delivered a solid kick to the front door, knocking it inward. The rest of the men in the stack quickly entered. The three observers turned to watch their performance inside.

The NextGen mens' carbines fired in short, precision bursts at the targets in the front room. Each target was designed for immediate feedback, instantly falling to the floor upon being hit in a lethal area. All four targets in the front room were down within two seconds of initial entry. Shouting statuses and commands to each other, the men slid down the hallway toward the next room.

A target popped up down the hallway. The lead NextGen man and the man behind him, whose weapon was propped on the man's shoulder, both fired. The target dropped.

The men paused halfway down the hall. There was a closed door to their right. It opened into the hallway. The men moved to the other side of the hall. The last man kept his eye to the rear. One man from the center stepped across the hall and checked the door for traps and wires while the others kept their eyes forward. He signaled to the team leader that it was clear. The leader nodded and pointed to two other men who acknowledged him. With another nod from the leader, the man who had checked the door flung it open and stepped aside. The other two entered immediately, firing their weapons a heartbeat later. They backed out slowly, nodding to the team leader. Clear. Two more targets down. They continued down the hall.

They only made it a few meters before a loud shout behind them interrupted their progress. The team leader looked back over his shoulder. The rear security man stood face-to-face with a large man clad in ballistic armor overlaid with red padding. A helmet and thick face shield concealed his features. At his feet lay a paintball rifle, knocked from his grip a second earlier. The red man now gripped a large plastic marking knife coated red in training paint. He lunged at the security man. Sidestepping the attack, the NextGen man delivered a swift buttstroke to the red man's helmet. Playing along, the red man crumpled to the floor, unhurt but feigning unconsciousness. The NextGen man nodded to his team leader, signaling he was not injured and would stay with the prisoner. The next man in line took the role of rear security as the team continued it way through the building.

A large room could be partially seen at the end of the hall. The NextGen men signaled to each other with hand signs. With a tap on his shoulder as the signal, the lead man slid along the wall into the room and began to fire at the closest targets. He saw a long, rectangular room before him and began to walk his fire down, putting a burst into a second target. The rest of the team walked rapidly along the wall to his right, firing their weapons into the remaining targets as they drove toward the end of the room. In four seconds, nine targets were down. One still stood as, above them, Middleton shouted, "Cease fire. Clear weapons and assemble at the front for the AAR (after action review)."

"That was a good showing, Team One," summarized Middleton minutes later. "A nearly flawless execution. You didn't shoot the civilians as you approached the target building, all hostiles in the building were "killed" or taken prisoner, and the representation of the civilian prisoner - of which you were not informed - was not harmed. You adjusted instantly to the variable of an actor in the shoot house - another factor about which we did not warn you - without dropping security to the front and continued on your mission. The only thing that went wrong was your rear security faltered in that no one took over while the actor and your rear man were engaged. Other than that, I'd say it was a perfect mission.

"Do you have anything to say, Brigadier?"

Ashton shook his head. "You summed it up very well, Colonel," referring to Middleton by his military rank equivalent, that of a lieutenant colonel.

Middleton nodded. He looked to Dublin. "Sergeant Major?"

Nodding himself and stepping forward, Dublin said, "Just one thing, sir. When the new rear man took over, he reloaded his weapon without announcing he was doing so. That means there was a period of time when the rear was not secure; the whole team was at risk. He should have had someone covering him while he was doing that."

Dublin stepped back to stand next to Ashton as the members of team one turned their gaze on the secondary rear security man. Everyone knew his error would not occur again. They would see to it. Discussion on the pros and cons of the raid on the building continued for another twenty minutes before everyone was satisfied. In the meantime, support personnel were working to reset the building's targets for the next team. By the time the AAR concluded, everything was ready for training to continue.

"Alright, boys," finished Middleton. "Thank you for your work here. You've got lots more to do today so take these vehicles back to the starting point and let's get team two down here for their turn."

"This should be interesting," observed Dublin as they walked back to the observation deck. "We'll get to see how much of the rust team two's beaten off of ol' Dev."

Ashton grinned. "Despite their running him into the ground, I'm sure he'll be much happier there then he would be as my constant shadow like he was last time."

"There's good and bad for everything, boss," said Dublin. "You know how he likes to see the big picture. At least when he's with you, he has that. He won't have that luxury on the teams."

"True," laughed Ashton. "He'll have only what he needs to know, but he'll also be with men similar to those he knew when he was a SEAL. I think he will enjoy that, as well."

"But you put him on Pad's team," added Dublin. "That's punishment in itself. He's the toughest assistant team leader in Bravo Company."

"And Devon Sather will either blossom or wilt under his tutelage," affirmed Ashton. "Time will tell."

Warrant Officer Second Class Paderau Griffin was indeed a rough and seasoned noncommissioned officer. He had had a lot of time, over eight centuries, in fact, to develop his skills as a soldier and an NCO leader. As one of only nine Immortals in NextGen, the Welshman held a special, though unspoken, place in the hearts of Ashton and Dublin. Griffin had been with NextGen since its formation and, like Dublin, had eschewed the offer of a commissioned officer role and chosen instead to start as a simple team member before rising to the position of assistant team leader. In that role, he was admired - and almost feared - by other members of NextGen.

"Here they come," said Middleton.

Ashton replaced his earplugs and raised his binoculars to his eyes. He focused on the lead vehicle as he heard Middleton instruct the range controller to "Go hot." He saw the gunner of the vehicle crouch behind his weapon. The machine gun bucked against the gunner's shoulder just as the man's expression turned to one of shock; he released the trigger. Ashton could see a curse form on the man's mouth as he swung the barrel of the weapon aside. Glancing down, he saw one of the civilian targets was down.

 _Not a good way to start,_ he thought, saying nothing. Beside him, Middleton scribbled a quick note on his clipboard.

The vehicles pulled up in front of the target building and the doors opened. Men exited the vehicles and made themselves ready exactly as rehearsed.

"Let's see if they can make up for that shite approach," muttered Dublin. Ashton did not reply. He only moved along the railing to look into the building as the men entered.

The takedown of the first room was as flawless as one could hope. The team moved along the hall, stopping to neutralize the room in the hallway's center. As with team one, they did not notice the actor hiding in the shadows. This time when he emerged from the room, the rear security man was a second too slow to react. He was turning toward the actor when a paintball exploded across his chest. Acting stunned since he was wearing body armor, the NextGen man staggered back, cursing, his weapon going limp in his hands. A second paintball struck the throat protector he wore. This would be a fatal wound regardless of his armor. The NextGen man's back hit the far wall and he slid to the floor.

The curse of the rear security man alerted the men in front of him. The first one in front of him turned in time to see him fall and to take in the sight of the massive man in red. Shouting, "Contact rear," he pivoted and swung his weapon around. Due to the narrowness of the hallway, no one else could assist him. Too close to bring his paintgun around to fire, the actor swung his feux-weapon up, clanging its barrel into that of the NextGen man before him. Both barrels connected with the wall.

The NextGen man swung his carbine back in a circular motion, capturing the actor's weapon and ripping it from his hands. Realizing he was being disarmed, the actor whipped a knifehand across the back of the NextGen man's elbow joint. The NextGen man's hand popped open and the carbine fell. Only the three-point sling he wore kept the weapon from hitting the floor. It swung alongside his hip, instead. Both men reached for alternate weapons. The NextGen man pulled a pistol from a chest holster while the actor brandished his training knife. Both men attacked at the same time. The NextGen man fired three quick rounds into the armor plating of the actor's chest while the actor's knife slashed at his throat, leaving a red paint mark across his carotid artery. The actor slumped to the floor.

Turning to face his teammates, the NextGen man placed his fingers to his throat. He glanced down at them. "Shit," he said when he saw red and sat down, grumbling to himself. The man in front of him took over rear security.

A minor glitch at range control had delayed the timing of the popup target down the hallway. It did not come up until the fight in the back of the team was well underway. This forced the team to react to threats on both ends at once. The front man's reaction to the new target was slowed by a full second as he had glanced back to the rear. When he looked forward again, he was face-to-face with the target.

"Front man down," shouted Middleton from above. Playing along without complaint, the front man knelt and then lay down as his teammates engaged the target and moved forward.

The team seemed to recover their bearings when they began the takedown of the last room. The entry man began his fire quickly as the rest of the team moved along the wall, firing as they moved. Their fire was rapid and accurate, taking down the targets quickly. Middleton's command to "Cease fire" was superfluous since they had already stopped shooting. All hostiles were down. In fact, all targets were down. Once again, Middleton ordered, "Clear weapons and assemble at the front for the AAR."

The three observers along with Captain Damon Timons and Warrant Officer Paderau Griffin stood outside the building five minutes later, looking down at the target of the civilian. Had it been an actual human, the injury may not have been life threatening given proper medical care. The bullets from the lead gunner's weapon had impacted the left arm area of the target. Perhaps the arm could have been saved; perhaps not. Middleton motioned for the two leaders to join their team and then turned to face them. He gave a quick rundown of the events inside the house for the benefit of the outside security element.

"Had this," he pointed back to the civilian target, "been the only mistake you boys had made during this exercise, I could still say things went relatively well. However, I think this shook you up and after that everything afterward turned into a major cock up. Although our actor was taken down, he managed to take two men with him. And we might as well say three since the lead man of the formation was distracted and did not notice the hostile in front of him until it was too late. After all of that, you guys were so distraught you lost your situational awareness and shot everything in front of you, resulting in the death of the civilian prisoner in the building. So, in the end, we have seventeen dead hostiles, one dead civilian, one severely injured civilian, and three dead team members. Not a good day, lads."

"Now don't take this as entirely negative, boys," interjected Dublin from behind Middleton. "We're training for combat and all kinds of shite happens out there. We knew that and that's why we throw things like this at you. So you'll experience the frustration now, in a safe environment, and learn from it."

"Thank you, Sergeant Major," said Middleton. "Do you have anything, Brigadier?"

Ashton stepped forward. "I'll just add a little to the sergeant major's comments." Facing the team, he continued, "Sergeant Major Dublin was exactly on point. We're all experienced men and we know that nothing goes as expected once you hit the ground. The key is to maintain your professionalism, to not let your emotions overcome you, when the situation goes awry, else it continues to deteriorate. Recognize the value of the training scenarios and learn from them. Take their lessons, refine them, and incorporate them into your battle drills. Like the sergeant major said, it is better that you make your mistakes now than in the field. Sweat now or bleed later, gentlemen. Come back tomorrow and do better."

Ashton looked specifically at one team member. "And perhaps tomorrow Sergeant Sather can avoid getting a red stripe across his neck." There was lighthearted laughter from the team as Sather blushed brightly.

"You can count on that, sir," proclaimed Warrant Officer Griffin. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us before tomorrow's showing."

"I'm sure you do, Pad," replied Dublin. "Now, let's continue with the AAR so we can get the next team down here."

xxxxxxxxxx

28 July 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"I can't help it, Johnny. I'm worried about them." Tristan slumped backward, letting himself bounce onto Johnny's mattress. Johnny leaned back on an elbow next to him. On his other side, Alyssa slithered across the bed and stroked the boy's hair.

"Oh, my dear little Tristan. You're such a doll for caring about your friends so much." She looked deeply into his brown eyes, smiling. "They've only flown off a few hours ago and you're already shaking."

"In that case," cooed Paula from the doorway, "we need to pin him down until he calms a bit, don't we." Tristan's head rose to watch the tiny blonde woman as the strode into the room. She walked to the end of Jonny's bed, turned, and sat at the end of it. Sitting back, she eased herself down until she lay across his legs with her head resting on Jonny's thigh. Smiling, she said, "Now you can't get away, can you, little man?"

Tristan giggled despite himself and patted Paula's abdomen like a drum with his fingers. "Nope. I can't move at all now."

"And he looks a little happier now," observed Alyssa with a grin.

Glancing sideways, Tristan added, "So does Johnny."

"Hey, how often do I get to have a cute German girl put her head in my lap?"

Alyssa laughed at his comment. "Anytime you want when I'm not around?"

Johnny put a finger to his chin contemplatively. "Touché," he finally said. Looking back at his friend, he asked, "Did David or Darren say where they were going this time?"

"No," answered Tristan. "I think you know as much as I do. They got some information a few days ago somehow and now they're leaving. That's all I know."

"Yeah, he's been rather close-lipped about it all, hasn't he?" asked Alyssa.

Tristan stared up at the ceiling, the fingers of one hand absentmindedly drawing circles across Paula's stomach. "Yeah. Do you think it's Afghanistan again?"

Johnny shrugged. "Knowing him, it could be anywhere. It's been over a year since he's gone anywhere with the teams. That probably means it's a big deal, but there's no real telling where or why."

"It's got to be Farid," remarked Alyssa. "After everything that's happened in London lately, that's been his priority, especially after what the Prime Minister told him."

"What was that?" inquired Paula, her eyes closed and a trace of a smile on her lips from Tristan's light ministrations.

"To kill Farid and all his associates," said Alyssa bluntly.

"Wow!" exclaimed Paula, her eyes still closed. "Those are strong words for a prime minister."

Johnny chuckled and ran his fingers through her hair. "I'm sure he didn't use those exact words, but that's the general meaning of them. It still doesn't necessarily mean it's the reason the teams have flown off. I mean they're always tracking three or four crises around the world. He might be going off to squelch one of those."

"Maybe," sighed Tristan, still eyeing the ceiling. "I don't think so, though."

"Yeah, I guess I don't, either," admitted Johnny.

"Hey," interrupted Paula. "That tickles."

Tristan looked down at her and realized what he had been doing. He could feel the faint outline of her abdominal muscles through her shirt and had been tracing them with his fingers. Johnny laughed.

"S..Sorry," Tristan stammered.

"No," demanded Alyssa, crawling across the bed to get closer. "Don't apologize to her. Dive in, my boy. Attack."

"What?" implored Paula, raising her head to look at the girl.

Alyssa threw herself across Paula's legs, pinning her to the mattress. At the same time, she reached out with a hand and raked her fingertips across the woman's rib cage. Paula squealed with laughter and bent to the side to protect herself.

"Get her, boys," ordered Alyssa with a devious grin.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Johnny, reaching across the woman with his own fingers. Grinning, Tristan did the same. Paula's howls of laughter echoed throughout the entire floor.

xxxxxxxxxx

Author's Note: The description of Camp Buehring is borrowed liberally (and only slightly modified) from the Global Security article located at . .

29 July 2005

Camp Buehring, Kuwait

Formerly known as Camp Udairi, Camp Buehring is located sixty-four kilometers from the Iraq border and has served as the staging and training base for tens of thousands of Iraq-bound coalition troops. Since opening in January 2003, it has been a busy hub for Army Apache, Black Hawk and Chinook helicopters supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom.

The U.S. Army's permanent aviation base camp in Kuwait was renamed in memory of an officer who died in a rocket attack at the Coalition Provisional Authority headquarters in Baghdad, Lieutenant Colonel Charles H. "Chad" Buehring, who had been the senior psychological operations officer in Iraq at the time of his death. A monument and plaque memorializing Buehring were dedicated as part of the event.

Camp Buehring is a huge U.S. Army facility set deep in the Kuwait desert that, at any one time, can have up to fourteen thousand soldiers passing through it. Although packed with morale and recreation facilities that could rival some U.S. bases, Camp Buehring is still a desert camp, far from home and the friends and families of the troops. A fully-stocked exchange, several phone centers, a coffee house, gym facilities, Burger King and a twenty-four-hour Pizza Inn are just a few of the amenities here topping the "most favorites list."

However, the one favorite nearly everyone agrees on is the dining facility where meals like steak and lobster are not uncommon. The chow-hall, as the soldiers call it, is one of the largest facilities on the camp and is capable of serving several thousand troops at every meal. However, the line nearly always extends several hundred feet beyond the entrance and, despite there being six food lines, there is often a long wait to eat. However, the line is still shorter than that for the post exchange (the general store).

But services at Camp Buehring obviously go well beyond these basics. Although involving a two-hour wait in line, soldiers enjoy the video-chat services offered at the Internet Café. For five dollars an hour, a soldier can get a computer with a high-speed connection, a webcam and headphones and then connect with a friend or loved one at home, providing they have the same capability.

A unique challenge to Camp Buehring's surge-related activities is its distinction as one of Kuwait's few enduring camps, meaning it is slated to sustain operations for many years. This forces the camp's command cell staff to continue big picture operations, such as completing important infrastructure upgrades, while still maintaining the camp's immediate role as one of Kuwait's largest transient camps. These permanent staff members are fondly referred to as "tenants" while those passing through are "transients."

Heavy-equipment transporters loaded with M1A1 Abrams tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles are often seen sat in about a dozen single-file lines on a sandy staging area at Camp Buehring. Soldiers are not idle either; while at the camp they use their time to conduct briefings about upcoming missions in Iraq, conduct training, and stock up on stores and ammo.

Soldiers have lauded the camp's air-conditioned billets and generous portions of food served up at the dining facility - three "hots" a day. Some even joked that the time in Kuwait made life a little too easy. However, there were still many soldiers who had to make do with big cloth tents, known as "fest" or "temper" tents with plywood flooring.

Most of these conveniences were not on the minds of Ashton and Dublin as they exited the helicopters at the airfield. They wanted only to get their equipment unloaded and their men bedded down for the night. They were grateful for one luxury, at least. Being a small unit and one with a virtually unlimited budget, they had opted for helicopter transport from Kuwait City International Airport instead of taking a series of buses like most units did. While a bit more noticeable to observers, to be sure, it did save a great deal of time.

As expected, a small party of soldiers, four this time, was awaiting their arrival. The quartet consisted of two officers and two NCOs, a lieutenant colonel, a captain, and two sergeants first class. They had clearly been briefed on recognition of British rank insignia beforehand. The two officers paired off to speak with Ashton while the NCOs went straight to Dublin as soon as the two of them had alighted from the helicopter and walked a safe distance from it. Since Camp Buehring was not considered a tactical area, the senior American officer rendered a crisp salute to Ashton as he approached. Ashton returned it.

"Colonel," he read the man's name tape, "Carhartt, thank you for meeting us," said Ashton over the roar of the rotors. He shook hands with both officers in turn.

"My pleasure, Brigadier. Would you please follow me?"

They walked a bit further down the flightline so they could talk a little easier. Ashton glanced over his shoulder. Dublin and the American NCOs were already signaling shuttles to come up and pick up his men. Ashton nodded and turned back to the officers.

"We were quite surprised when we were told of your coming, sir," commented Carhartt. "There wasn't much time to prepare for your arrival. Fortunately, yours is a small party so finding room wasn't difficult."

Ashton grinned at the colonel. "Life is unpredictable, Colonel. A week ago, we didn't know we were coming, either."

The captain, Rangle, raised his eyebrows in surprise. "A week ago? Really?"

"Oh, yes. Situations change rapidly in our line of work."

"And what would that be?" inquired Rangle.

Ashton did not answer, only looking the captain in the eyes. Carhartt tapped the captain's arm and indicated the subdued parachutist wings sewn onto Ashton's uniform. Rankle's eyes widened. Ashton smirked at his reaction. The officers had clearly been taught more than simply how to recognize British rank insignia; they knew the uniform badges, as well. The British army has several types of parachutist insignia. The type worn depends on the role of the soldier. The Special Air Service has its own distinct badge. This is what Rangle saw on Ashton's uniform.

"We'll do everything we can to accomodate you and your men while you're here, sir," assured Carhartt.

"Thank you, Colonel."

xxxxxxxxxx

29 July 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

To say he was inquisitive was putting it too mildly. Lieutenant Colonel John Rey going mad with curiosity. Ever since the raid that had brought "Abu Buckshot," as Sergeant First Class Bader had dubbed him, into his grasp, the armor officer and his staff had been plagued with requests for information not just from 84th Brigade Headquarters, which was bad enough, but from Central Command itself. Now he was being told to expect forty-five men from the British SAS to arrive at his FOB sometime in the next week. And all he knew was it had something to do with two men named Aadam el-Farid and Hakim al-Ghamdi. That was it.

"Two," he said, calling on his intelligence officer as he entered the staff tent. "What do you have on Farid and Ghamdi?"

Since the FOB fire, the TOC and battalion staff had relocated one hundred meters from the chicken factory and occupied new, though not as stylish, work space. The TOC was now located in an M1087 expandable van shelter, a mobile command-and-control office on the back of a cargo truck. The battalion staff were now in three conjoined GP-large tents with wooden pallet floors and air conditioning units. The staff tent was right next to the TOC. Two-thirds of the tent was used for staff work while the other third was reserved for meetings.

Captain Barrett turned in his chair to face his commander. Rey approached the captain as he spoke.

"Sir, we've found a good bit on Hakim al-Ghamdi. He's been a figure in the Baghdad and Mahmudiyah area for about a year now. Sources say he's been recruiting men for jihad outside of Iraq but they're not sure where. He seemed to have developed quite a following until June of last year when, for some reason, most of the men who had promised to follow him reneged on their word. He has since been trying to rebuild his numbers. Sources say he probably has about two hundred fifty men under his command now."

Rey nodded as he absorbed that information. "And Farid?"

"Not as much on him. Mostly rumor, conjecture. Most of it seems too far fetched to believe."

"How so?"

"He has a reputation going back farther than he is in age. That's the weird part. He's only in his early thirties from what we can tell, but stories about him seem to go back for generations and in multiple countries across the Middle East. He's known as _Zawbiea_ \- Whirlwind - in that he appears in an area, lays waste to it, and then disappears like a ghost. There are even stories about him saying he cannot be killed. Some sources even call him _Khalid Zawbiea_ , Immortal Whirlwind. Other than that, sir, I have found nothing definitive on him."

"Sounds like something out of that comic strip, The Phantom," commented Rey.

Barrett chuckled. "Like a family that keeps up the appearance of being the same man for hundreds of years? Yeah, maybe. That's about the only way I could explain it. Anything else is just too strange."

"Well, whatever it is," continued Rey, "it's bringing a contingent of SAS troopers all the way from England down to visit us soon. We need to have more than rumors about immortals and a small army of jihadis in our midst to give them when they arrive."

"Yes, sir," acknowledged Barrett.

Ten meters down and across the tent, Morgan tapped his iPod to resume the playback of his music. He pondered what he had just heard as he worked.

 _The SAS? Coming here? Wow! It would really be neat to meet some of those guys. Not that any of them would be much interested in a button pusher like me, though. Oh, well. At least I can listen to what's going on while they're here._

xxxxxxxxxx

04 August 2005

Camp Buehring, Kuwait

Ashton had found a pleasant place at the camp to pass some time. It was really quite by accident that he had stumbled upon it three days ago during a late night walk, a quaint little coffee shop called Green Beans. Serving everything from various coffees and teas to smoothies, muffins, and pastries, it was quite a decadent place. He'd had a little trouble at first when he presented his British currency - they preferred American - but it was easily overcome. He had a small stash of U.S. notes in his wallet, as well. He made a mental note to stop at the ATM kiosk he had noticed earlier in the day to restock his supply. Since then, he had introduced the place to the officers and men of NextGen and it had become their favorite hangout.

"We fly out tonight, Major. What's your assessment of the men?" Ashton inquired.

Major Jeffrey Burke, the commander of Bravo Company, sipped his tea and sighed happily. With a smile, he replied, "They're definitely good to go, sir. The time here has allowed them to acclimate to the heat and they've been able to refine some of their battle drills in the meantime. It's been time well spent." Burke glanced at Captain Wendell Adams, his executive officer, and his company sergeant major, Thomas Scarbury. They both nodded their assent.

Ashton shifted his gaze to Dublin who nodded, as well. "Very well. We'll let them enjoy the hot food, or the junk food, whichever they prefer, and relax for the rest of the day. Once we board that Chinook, the vacation's over."

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton stood with his men, his bergen (rucksack) at his side, his armor and weapons on his body. No one in the company commented on the strange accessories he, the sergeant major, and one of their assistant team leaders, also wore across their backs, swords. Members of special forces all have their quirks and these, figured the other men, were just those particular to these of their leaders. Hell, some of the men carried balisongs, throwing stars, and other odd gear so who was to say anything about swords?

The afternoon sun was slipping closer to the horizon as the crew within the Chinook saw to the final details of the equipment onboard. Up front, the pilots were going through their preflight checks. As they worked, the NextGen men chatted among themselves, ignoring the stares of the American soldiers walking nearby.

With a signal from the crew chief, the NextGen men hefted their bergens and weapons and made their way toward the Chinook. They slid between the pallets of equipment in the center of the aircraft and took seats along the sides, strapping themselves in and setting their bergens on their laps or at their feet. The accommodations were cramped, but suitable for the trip. The Chinook, with its relatively light load of men and equipment, would just be able to make the flight from Buehring to Mahmudiyah.

Ashton sat at the end near the ramp. He casually observed one of the crew chiefs as he sat on the end of the rear ramp, strapped himself down, and checked his M240B machine gun. Ashton nodded slightly. The intensity of enemy activity just might require the use of that weapon before the flight was concluded. The Minoan leaned back to wait; not patiently, but waiting.

When, at last, it was time to lift off, there was a subtle sigh of relief among the men. The rotors achieved a deafening roar as they began to spin. The ungainly aircraft finally lifted itself off the ground like a clumsy insect.

The concept of flight had always amazed Ashton. He had seen a myriad of technological innovations during his long lifetime. Few of them, however, wowed him more than the ability to move over the ground like a bird. How many centuries had he spent during which riding on the back of horse had been the fastest mode of transport? Now, in the last century, there had been such miracles as flight, the internet, television, even little things like electronic currency. Sometimes his mind still swam with the thought of it all.

He glanced around the Chinook. Except for Dublin and Griffin, all of the others onboard had known such conveniences all their lives. They would not understand how incredible it truly was to be able to talk to someone halfway across the planet in real time or simply to buy fresh grapes at a store. Grinning to himself, Ashton shook his head. Perhaps this was one of the gifts of immortality, that of being able to truly appreciate the luxuries of modern life while others took it merely as a matter of course.

Even seeing the clear night sky and the brightness of the stars scattered across it had its own mesmerizing effect on the old Immortal. He had lived long enough, in fact, to notice the finite shift in the constellations and other stars which he had once used to navigate the waterways of his youth so many millennia ago. Even they were different now, though only just. Smirking again, he thought about how even the younger Immortals on the aircraft would not comprehend his ponderings on that topic.

 _You truly are an old man, Rusa,_ he thought to himself.

The red streak arcing across the sky almost went unnoticed by the Minoan, so deep was his revery. It took him a heartbeat to come back to the present and recognize the bright intermittent red sparks for what they were. Tracer rounds. A chill of helplessness ran through his body as he watched the bullets, two hundred meters away or so, rise and fall in the air.

The crew chief on the rear ramp pivoted, angling his weapon toward the source of the fire. Although unable to hear it himself, Ashton knew he was signaling the sight of it to the pilots at the front. The man did not return fire, not yet, at least. There had only been one arc of fire thus far, not enough to pinpoint the position of the enemy location.

All that changed in an instant. Ashton's eyebrows rose in shock as he watched three separate strings of incoming tracers arc toward the aircraft. There was not enough time for any other response. Bullets slammed into the Chinook. The sheer volume of fire made it clear to Ashton that the three arcs he had seen were not the only sources of fire. The crew chief's M240 spat its reply furiously, its tracers angling down toward one of the enemy positions. Ashton could not see if they hit the position or even came close to it. He and the other NextGen men were too busy by now curling into as small a target as possible within their seats. To his left, he heard one of his men scream as he was struck by an incoming round.

"Man down!" Warrant Officer Griffin, seated near the front, bellowed over the din of the Chinook's rotors.

At first, Ashton thought Griffin was referring to the NextGen man who had screamed a moment earlier. He glanced to the left, seeing that man applying pressure to a bleeding calf with his hands. He looked up at Griffin, noticing the NCO's gaze was focused to the rear of the aircraft. Ashton blinked, only then realizing he no longer heard the crew chief's weapon firing. Looking back, he saw the man slumped down on the ramp in a spreading pool of blood.

The dimness made the severity of the situation even more difficult to ascertain. It took Ashton another full two seconds to fully comprehend what he saw. The crew chief, struck from below, also had lost the security of one of his safety straps, it being severed by the round that had hit him. His body slowly slipped closer to the edge of the ramp.

"Shit!" exclaimed Ashton, trying to rise from his own seat. The seat straps held him secure. Cursing again, he pushed his bergen aside and undid the clasps. Standing, he made his way to the ramp, his eyes intent on the downed crew chief. He felt a hand grab at him from the rear. Slapping it away, he continued on his path.

Ashton got on his knees, taking handholds wherever he could. The journey toward the crew chief was made all the more difficult by the continued buffeting of bullets against the side of the Chinook. He even felt one round screech past his ear as he lowered himself further, getting down on his stomach and crawling toward the rear. His rifle, clipped to a sling on his armor, dragged alongside him. He finally reached the crew chief after an agonizingly long minute.

The Minoan ran his hands over the man, checking his injuries. The crew chief was alive, but badly hurt. His severed safety strap had given way, but the other had held firm, thankfully. The bleeding from his wound, however, was severe. Ashton crawled atop the man's body, anchoring him down, and pulled a knife from the side of his body armor. Cutting a scrap of cloth from the crew chief's uniform, he rolled it up and plugged it into the hole in the groaning man's side. There was no exit wound.

The Chinook shuddered again as more bullets crashed into its side. Ashton would have sworn he even heard a round careen off one of the rotors. He may have been correct. The helicopter stuttered in its flight, shaking violently. Ashton reached for the crew chief's safety strap. Too late. He and the injured man began to slide to the ride. After a meter of movement, the crew chief was held in place by the strap. Ashton, however, was not. His hands scrambled desperately for a hold but found nothing, the knife disappearing into the night. A heavy object collided against the back of his head, starring his vision despite the helmet he wore as it went cartwheeling over him and into the air. Only as his body went momentarily airborne did the Immortal notice something else.

Slamming back onto the ramp, smashing his nose against its surface, the Minoan realized something was tugging on the back of his body armor by its straps. Spitting blood from a split lip, he glanced back. Starting further back in the aircraft, his legs wrapped in the webbing of the palletized equipment, one of the NextGen men held tightly to the back straps of one of his buddy's armor. Connected to him in a series and being constantly jostled by the ever shuddering Chinook, nine men formed a chain, the last link of which was holding defiantly to his commander's armor.

"Loveable bloody fools," grinned Ashton, his comment blown away in the howling wind as he crawled back to the crew chief.

xxxxxxxxxx

04 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Lieutenant Colonel Rey and Major Trenton stood by the FOB's tiny flight pad, a contingent of anxious medics twenty meters behind them. The Chinook thundering over their heads was slowly lowering itself within the walls of the FOB, its rear ramp open. The medics readied their litters as it neared the ground.

"Oh, shit," commented Rey, finally seeing the bird in the moonlight. "That fucker took quite a pounding." He looked back at the medics, wondering if he had brought enough of them. The report from the pilots had said to expect two injured men. The chill running through Rey's body told him they would be more. If there was one thing he had learned in his three months in country, it was the Triangle had a way of chewing up bodies.

The Chinook settled on the pad with a clunk, its rotors slowing almost gratefully. Rey turned and motioned for the medics to approach. He walked slowly toward the aircraft, wondering if he was going to greet a company of SAS troopers or a morgue.

A kneeling man on the ramp cradled the crumpled form of the crew chief in his arms. Seeing the litter bearers, he shifted the crew chief gently and made a gesture toward the interior of the aircraft. He turned back to the medics just as they settled on the ramp. He assisted them as they eased the injured man onto the first litter.

The blood-spattered man finally stood. Rey nearly gasped. He did not expect a general officer, a brigadier, to be the one getting his hands dirty, so to speak, with a bleeding man. The brigadier turned back to face the inside of the Chinook, reaching to help another man as he limped toward the second litter.

"Come on, Ron," he said. "Just a little bit more. That's a good lad."

"Thank you, sir," replied the wounded trooper, allowing the brigadier and a medic to assist him into the litter.

"These Yanks will take good care of you. I'll come check on you soon."

"Yes, sir."

"We've got one more, sir," said a voice from within the Chinook.

The brigadier turned back to face the voice. "What happened, Peter?" he asked.

"Twisted my ankle in the netting during that chain we made, sir, when the bird was jumping around."

The brigadier nodded, patting the man gently on the shoulder. "And I do thank you lads for that."

The brigadier looked over at the medics. Rey finally noticed his unusual accent when he asked them, "Would you boys mind helping Sergeant Petrie over to your medical station? Walking on his own is going to be a little difficult at the moment."

"No problem, sir," answered one of the medical sergeants, stepping up with a specialist at his side. They each took one of Sergeant Petrie's arms and slowly walked him down the ramp. "Watch the edge," cautioned the sergeant as they reached the end.

"Anyone else, Darren?"

"No, sir. That's everyone."

Nodding, the brigadier turned his attention at last to matters outside of the aircraft. As if noticing Colonel Rey for the first time and acting as if he had not a speck of blood marring the appearance of his face and uniform, he grinned.

"Lieutenant Colonel John Franklin Rey. Thank you for meeting us tonight. Forgive me for not greeting you sooner." The brigadier hopped off the ramp and, in three steps, stood before Rey. He extended his hand.

"David Ashton," he said.

"Welcome to FOB Saint Michael, Brigadier," said Rey, shaking the man's hand firmly. "No apologies needed. Your men must come first." The brigadier nodded. Rey turned to Major Trenton. "This is my executive officer, Major Joseph Trenton."

"Major," greeted Ashton, shaking Trenton's hand, as well. Trenton smiled and nodded to the brigadier, saying nothing.

"You look a little worse for wear, sir, if you don't mind my saying," commented Rey.

Looking down at his armor as if seeing it for the first time, Ashton smirked. "We ran into your local welcoming party on the way," he replied. "I'm afraid our crew chief didn't take to their way of saying hello. He needed a bit of help."

"Don't let him play it down," called out Sergeant Petrie over his shoulder as he limped away. "The brigadier jumped out of his seat and treated the guy's wound while we were under fire. He nearly got thrown off the ramp, too."

Rey's eyes went wide as he took in Ashton's uniform with new appreciation. Beside him, Major Trenton's jaw dropped. Ashton shrugged.

"I can't take all the credit. The boys kept me from learning to fly by grabbing onto me and keeping me inside. It was, as you Americans like to say, a team effort."

"Is that how Sergeant Petrie twisted his ankle?" asked Rey.

Ashton nodded. "He was the first man in a human chain. He had his legs pushed through the webbing on the equipment pallet."

Rey grinned and offered his hand again. "All I can say, sir, again is welcome to Mahmudiyah. It's probably only going to get more interesting from here."

Chuckling, Ashton shook the man's hand once more as Dublin walked up beside him. Gesturing to the Irishman, Ashton said, "Allow me to introduce my regimental sergeant major, Darren Dublin."

Dublin shook hands with the officers as introductions were made again. Major Trenton nodded to Dublin. "I'll hook you guys up with the tents we've set aside for you. Tomorrow, I'll introduce you to Sergeant First Class Novelle. He'll show you around the FOB and key you in on where all the important facilities are. He would be here with us tonight but got pulled into a last minute assignment.

"I'm afraid you guys got here too late for dinner. I'll check with the mess sergeant, though. I know he can come up with something for you all to eat. It might just be MREs (meals-ready-to-eat) but at least it's something."

Dublin nodded. "Thank you, sir. The boys will appreciate that."

A NextGen trooper trotted up to Ashton as the men spoke and waited for an opportunity to intervene. Ashton turned to face him.

"Yes, Evan, what is it?"

"Sir, the men have all their gear, but there is one key item missing. Your bergen is gone."

Ashton's grin slowly faded. Bringing a hand absentmindedly to the back of his head, he rubbed it gently. Seconds later, he chuckled to himself.

"It's somewhere about the suburbs of this humble town, I'd imagine." He nodded to the trooper. "Thank you, Evan. Go join the lads and get some food and rest."

"Yes, sir."

Ashton turned back to Rey and Trenton. His expression darkened slightly. "Damn it all. After tonight, I could really have used that bergen right about now, too."

"Really, sir?" inquired Trenton. "What was in it?"

"Other than all of my spare magazines for my weapons, barring what I'm wearing, of course, several boxes of ammunition, and the book I was reading, and a few nonessentials, it also had my humidor inside it. All of my cigars are gone."

Trenton just stared at the brigadier. "Sorry, sir. I can't help you there. I don't smoke."

Waving a dismissing hand, Ashton remarked, "It's no emergency. Just an inconvenience. Bullets and magazines can be replaced, after all." Finally brightening, he added, "At least it wasn't my clothing bag. I'd hate to have to wear this same uniform the entire time I'm here."

The men shared a lighthearted grin. "Well, sir," stated Rey, "while the sergeant major and Major Trenton get your men and equipment squared away, I can brief you on the current situation here, if you like."

"Thank you, Colonel. That would be perfect. Let me get Major Burke, my Bravo Company commander, and we can get right to that."

xxxxxxxxxx

Dublin joined Colonel Rey, Burke, and Ashton in the meeting area of the staff tent half an hour later. He carried a bag with three brown packages and four liter-and-a-half bottles of water. He gave a bottle to Colonel Rey and one of each to Major Burke. Sitting next to Ashton, he slid one of the packages and one of the bottles of water to him. Ashton nodded his thanks and continued listening to Lieutenant Colonel Rey, ensconced in his usual spot at the head of the meeting table.

Ashton glanced at the wording on the front of the MRE packaging. Cheese tortellini. Remembering his lost knife, he mentally shrugged and pulled the peel-apart plastic outer wrapper from the meal. He neatly spread the meal's contents out before him. Each was in its own plastic or cardboard container. Beside the main component, there was pound cake, a seasoning blend, spiced apples, a packet of peanut butter, two large crackers in brown plastic wrapping, a roll of candy, and a plastic-wrapped accessory packet containing apple cider powder, salt, chewing gum, paper matches, a small pack of toilet tissue, and a moist towelette. There was also a sturdy brown plastic spoon and a water-activated flameless heater for the main entree.

Rey paused while the international game of soldier trade began. He was amazed that no words passed between the men, no bargaining, only exchanging. These men knew each other intimately well. Ashton pushed his pound cake toward Dublin and the peanut butter and candy further down to Burke. Dublin slid a packet of shortbread cookies and another of jalapeño cheese spread to Ashton. Burke tossed a pack of M&Ms and wheat snack bread down to the brigadier.

Looking briefly at two items, Ashton silently offered the cheese and crackers to Rey. The colonel grinned. "Thank you, sir," he said, accepting the gift before continuing the briefing. Rey squeezed the cheese onto a cracker and spread it carefully with a finger so as not to crush or break the cracker.

"So, this "Abu Buckshot" chap, as you call him," commented Ashton, wiping his hands and face with the moist towelette, "was quite the little victory for you and, it seems, for us. We wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Oh, yes, sir," replied Rey through his mouthful of cheese and cracker. "One item of information we left out of the initial report, though, was something we found a day later. My scouts did another search of the house, just to be sure of things, and found another cache. It wasn't weapons this time. It was money. Lots of it."

Rey swallowed. "It wasn't just the new Iraqi dinar, either. It was dollars, pounds, and Euros. About sixteen million dollars in value when it was all totaled."

Ashton glanced at Burke and Dublin upon hearing this. He dipped his spoon into the cold tortellini. "That sounds very much like the influence of the man we're after, Aadam Farid." Grinning, he said, "That makes it an even better coup. Not only did you take down your accursed EFP maker and the financier of Baghdad, you got all of his money. Or, as I would theorize, Farid's money, at least a good part of it."

"Yes, sir," smiled Rey. "Just yesterday, in fact, one of our intelligence sources told us that your other target, Al-Ghamdi, may have not been able to recruit another hundred or so soldiers due to a lack of funds to pay them."

At that, Burke slapped a hand on the table. "Superb, Colonel. Excellent work."

xxxxxxxxxx

"Thank you, Colonel," concluded Ashton as he stepped out of the staff tent. "We will link up with you again in the morning."

"Yes, sir. Sleep well."

Major Burke took a look at his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a yawn.

"Where are the boys, Sergeant Major?" he asked, stretching his arms behind his back as they walked. "I'd like to give my XO and CSM a quick update before I turn in."

"Right this way, sir," answered Dublin. "It's not far. It's actually a small FOB anyway."

They walked a little further, or two of them did, before realizing Ashton was not with them. Glancing back, Dublin saw him standing at the entrance to the staff tent, a bemused expression on his face.

"What is it, boss?" Dublin queried.

"Do you smell that?"

"What? The sewage?"

Ashton chuckled. "No, the other thing."

Dublin sniffed. "No, what is it."

"I would swear I smell a burning cigar." The Minoan began walking straight ahead instead of to the right like the others.

"I'll go on ahead, Sergeant Major," said Burke. "Just tell me the way. You stay with the brigadier and his nose."

"Roger that," replied Dublin, giving Burke the directions. He then jogged to catch up with Ashton. Sniffing the air again, he was now sure of another odor in the air. Yes, it was definitely tobacco.

They crossed a small bridge over a canal. This area was criss-crossed with long concrete T-barriers with numerous olive-drab GP-large tents between them, obviously used to house the soldiers. Interspersed between every fourth tent or so was a long trailer-like building. Dublin stopped and opened the door to one of them. Running to catch up to Ashton, he reported what the trailers were. "Loos and showers."

They stopped at one T-barrier. Ashton glanced around the side of it. Dublin stood at his side. At the far end of the barrier, about five meters from the entrance to one of the tents, sat a young soldier perhaps in his late twenties. He wore glasses and had a shaven head. He sat in a folding steel and polyester sports chair, another such chair in front of him being used as an ottoman, with the back of his chair against the outer wall of one of the latrine trailers. He was positioned in such a way that the light from within the trailer shown down onto the book in his lap. Between the fingers of his right hand smoldered a long cigar. The soldier slowly brought the cigar to his lips. He gripped it in his teeth before languidly turning the page of his book. Only then did he take a puff from the cigar and remove it from his mouth.

After a brief moment, the soldier seemed to sense the presence of his two observers. He looked over in their direction casually, most likely expecting a member of his own battalion to be standing there. Even in the dim light, the difference in camouflage patterns told him instantly they were not. Ashton smirked. He detected a hint of recognition in the young man's eyes.

 _He's at least seen British uniforms before, I would say._

Seeing no point in standing in the semi-darkness, Ashton approached the young soldier. "Good evening," he said lightly, choosing the more common greeting even though he did not necessarily like to use it; he preferred to simply say "Hello." "I couldn't help but notice the pleasant aroma of that cigar you're smoking. I was wondering if I could perhaps purchase one from you."

Ashton saw the soldier's eyes flicker to the rank insignia on his uniform. Another flash of recognition. The boy, if one could call him such, began to stand, whether in recognition of Ashton's rank or simply out of hospitality, he was not sure. Due to the locality, however, Ashton was sure it was the latter. He thought he noticed an ingrained, though well-suppressed, urge to at least stand at the position of attention from the soldier as he took two steps and stood before them. He gave no noticeable reaction the the obvious blood stains on Ashton's uniform.

"Hello, brigadier," acknowledged the soldier, eliciting a grin from Ashton. _Another who dislikes pointless ceremony, I see._ The soldier offered his hand. "I'm Specialist Morgan and I'd be happy to offer a cigar to you, sir." He shook Ashton's hand in exactly the way the Minoan appreciated, like a man.

The soldier turned his gaze to Dublin. Studying his insignia briefly and obviously making a mental decision before he spoke, he added, "Sergeant Major." Dublin nodded to indicate he had guessed correctly. "Would you like one, as well?"

"Well, I don't often partake, but it's been a hell of a night so, in this case, yes, please." He shook Morgan's hand.

Nodding, Morgan looked pointedly back at the chair he had vacated. He returned his eyes to his guests. "One moment, please. Let me get my humidor and another chair." He stepped toward his tent.

"Oh, please, don't go to too much trouble," cajoled Ashton, knowing full well that Morgan would do just that. _We are seeing Southern hospitality at work, I see._

"No trouble at all, sir," retorted Morgan, disappearing inside. He was back less than a minute later, cigar in his teeth, a folded sports chair in one hand, a moderately-sized wooden humidor in the other. Dublin noted two slim packets between the fingers of the hand that clutched the chair, as well. Morgan placed the humidor in the chair he had used at a footstool, placing the folded chair next to it and unfurling it. He then lifted the humidor and brushed out the seat of the chair. Pulling the chairs back a meter or so, he proffered the seats to the men.

"Please," he said.

The Immortals sat, Dublin sighing contentedly as he did so. Morgan sat in his chair, the humidor in his lap, and handed over the two packets in his fingers.

"Something for your water bottles?" he offered, indicating the half-full bottles in their hands. "I have strawberry and lemonade flavor."

"Ah," said Dublin. "Strawberry, please."

"And lemonade is fine with me. Thank you," replied Ashton.

"And now," announced Morgan. "The good stuff. What would you gentlemen like?"

Ashton pointed to the cigar Morgan was currently puffing. "What is that? I think I would like one of those, please."

Morgan glanced at Ashton's uniform, noticing his name tape for the first time. He chuckled. Opening the humidor, he reached inside and extracted a long, light brown cigar. He held it up to the light so the two men could read the label. Dublin laughed aloud. It read Ashton.

"Well, isn't that just perfect?" Dublin commented.

Ashton smiled, accepting the cigar from Morgan. "I would say so." He held the cigar under his nose and sniffed. "This is very nice, Mister Morgan. Thank you. What do I owe you?"

Morgan waved him off. "Don't worry about it, sir. Consider it my gift. A welcome to Mahmudiyah."

"You knew we were coming?" Ashton asked.

"Yes, sir. I work in the operations staff now. I heard Colonel Rey and the S2 talking about your arrival a few days ago."

Ashton smirked at Dublin as he took the offered cutter and lighter from Morgan. "So much for our secret journey, eh, Darren?"

Dublin shrugged. "Better him than the enemy, at least." He leaned forward to look into the open humidor. "What's this green one?" He pulled out a long cigar the color of pistachios.

"It's a candela," answered Morgan. "A Palma Real. It's very good. Nice and mild."

"I think that's exactly what I need, then," replied Dublin. "Something mild after a rough day."

Ashton lit his cigar and took an experimental puff. He grinned. It was indeed exquisite. Noting Morgan's earlier comment, he inquired, "You said "now" as far as your working on the operations staff. What did you do before?"

Morgan set the humidor on the ground next to his chair and picked up his own bottle of flavored water. Sitting back, he looked the brigadier squarely in the eye. _Rank doesn't intimidate him at all. I like that._

"I have been in the National Guard my entire career," began Morgan. "I was an armor crewman when I first enlisted, at least for the first year. After that, I learned there had been some sort of drug deal between the recruiter and the unit leadership. They needed someone in the supply room and the next guy through the door was supposed to end up there no matter what he actually wanted. Well, a few months before I was to go to my skill training - I went to basic training and advanced training during two separate summers because I was also attending college - I learned that I would not be going to Fort Knox, where tankers go, but to Fort Lee, where logistics guys go. Suddenly, instead of being a real soldier, I was a log REMF." Morgan used the acronym for Rear-Echelon Motherfucker.

"I was stuck in the supply room or in battalion logistics for five years. Not to say I didn't learn anything valuable, per se. I saw how logistics can make or break a battle, but it was not what I had signed up to do and I was not happy.

"After I left college, I went full-time in the National Guard. The first thing they told me when I got the job was I would have to change my MOS (military occupational specialty) to personnel specialist. Well, at first I considered that no better than logistics, in a way, but at least I would be out of the supply room and not counting canteens every time I went to drill. I then discovered that I had a knack for personnel. I was actually quite good at it and could solve issues for soldiers that others couldn't. During one of my assignments, I was actually a battalion retention NCO - I was a corporal instead of a specialist - and I saw that just about every retention problem was related to some sort of personnel issue: people not getting paid or promoted or other things like that. When I went back to a personnel-pure type of job, I just saw it as a way to prevent retention problems from ever occurring. Solve the problem before it ever reached the point that the soldier got mad and wanted to leave.

"A few months ago, I got into a squabble with the sergeant in my section. I was trying to automate the way we worked - just like I had done in my other jobs - and he threatened to demote me for it. Major Trenton, our XO, who has known me since I was a private, wanted to prevent that from happening. He moved me from personnel over to operations. Now, instead of getting soldiers paid or promoting them, I help develop the operations orders that send them on their missions outside the wire."

"And what do you think of your new role?" asked Ashton.

"It's definitely a new experience. I'm exposed to the intel, operations, interrogations, and counterbattery teams and have to do mental backflips to keep up. I also get direct access to information on what our enemies are doing in reaction to our missions. It's invigorating. It's also unnerving, in a way, because what I do has a direct impact on my friends."

Morgan gestured to all the tents around them.

"What I put in those orders and send out to the companies or to the platoons, even though most of it is not my own words, sends my buddies into harm's way every day." Morgan took another puff on his cigar. "And I'm here on the FOB, a fucking FOBbit." Ashton mentally gave him points for not apologizing for his language. "The real soldiers go out there and execute the orders while the FOBbits sit here relatively safe. Big deal that rockets and mortars come into the FOB every day. We could even be overrun if the AIF (Anti-Iraqi Forces) massed in sufficient numbers. We're still safer, sort of, than the private or specialist going out there every day and fighting them face-to-face."

"Don't the battalion officers and other staff go out on missions, as well?" inquired Dublin.

"They do sometimes. I've been asking for a turn ever since we got here. It's never happened. I'm starting to wonder if it never will."

Ashton held up his cigar. "I do apologize for the segue. This cigar is fantastic. May I ask what it cost you? I must reimburse you for it."

Again, Morgan waved him off. "Those are about twelve dollars each retail. The tobacconist who sells them to me gives me a twenty-five percent discount for being deployed. That makes it nine dollars or…" Morgan's eyes fluttered up briefly. "About five pounds ten, five pounds fifteen, something like that."

Ashton smiled at him. "You're very good with numbers, I see. Five pounds fourteen, to be exact. Very good." He reached for his wallet. Morgan waved once more.

"Like I said, sir, it's my gift, and a thank you for the company. In fact, if your time allows, please come back again and enjoy another sometime."

"I will most certainly do that." Ashton glanced down at his clothing. "Hopefully, in somewhat cleaner attire next time."

Morgan smiled at that comment. "Yes, sir. And just how did that happen?"

xxxxxxxxxx

08 Aug 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Ashton stood in line with the American soldiers outside the small wooden dining facility awaiting his turn to get breakfast. He pondered the latest developments - or lack thereof - as he dallied there. No hard intelligence regarding the locations of Al-Ghamdi or Farid had come up since NextGen's arrival and the men were chomping bitterly for the chance to move. Anything would do at this point. They watched almost with envy as the Americans, in small groups of four to six HMWWVs or two to four M1A1 tanks, went outside the wire numerous times daily. They, on the other hand, sat and waited, cleaning weapons, checking their gear, and meeting in the small, dust-covered exercise tent to blow off some steam. Ashton could understand their frustration. He wanted to be out there - outside the FOB walls - himself.

 _I've only been here a few days and I'm starting to sympathize with Morgan's complaints about being a FOBbit. I'm beginning to feel like one myself._

The Minoan's eyes wandered over to a new sight as he waited. He grinned. Some bored - and possibly somewhat angry - soldier had taped a computer-generated sign to the side of the outside wall. It read, "Please do not feed the cat or its new kittens. The cat kills the mice and the mice get into our food. If the mice get into the food, you will get sick. If you get sick, you could get sent home and you don't want to tell your family you were defeated by an Iraqi mouse."

Ashton shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping his throat. _Only the Americans,_ he thought. This was typical of their sense of humor. He looked about the ramshackle FOB. He had indeed noticed a rising in the canal running through its center over the last few days. He had wondered about the cause of this, but had made no comment. The other thing he could not avoid noticing, either, was the abundance of mice. They were everywhere. Dublin had found one just that morning sitting on his cot and had chased it throughout the tent.

He entered the dining facility, its relative darkness causing his eyes to take a few seconds of adjustment before he could see again. After selecting the items for his meal, he searched for a place to sit. He quickly spotted Specialist Morgan seated next to Captain Barrett, the intelligence officer, and a member of the scout platoon, Sergeant Timothy Strickman. He strolled toward them, grinning.

"Is there room for another at this table, chaps?" he inquired.

"Yes, sir," replied Strickman, shifting over slightly to make room.

"Thank you." Ashton set his tray on the table and returned a moment later with a paper cup full of mango juice. He sat next to the scout.

"Good morning, sir," greeted Barrett, his smile bright in the building's dimness.

"Thank you, Captain. And to you. I see you are with one of your battalion's finest." He indicated Morgan. Shifting his eyes slightly to read the name tape of the soldier next to him, he continued, "I'm afraid I haven't met you yet, Sergeant Strickman." He offered his hand. "Brigadier David Ashton."

Strickman took his hand and grinned. "Sergeant Timothy Strickman, sir. I'm a team leader in the scout platoon."

"The scout platoon, eh?" replied Ashton. "Mister Morgan here speaks quite highly of that platoon. He says you're almost as good as nineteen kilo soldiers." Ashton grinned at Strickman as he used the MOS code for armor crewman. Cavalry scouts were in the same family of MOSs as tankers and held the code of nineteen delta. Their role, however, was reconnaissance of terrain and enemy locations and activities as well as the security of friendly lines during combat operations. While they could engage in direct combat with the enemy, their unit organization was too small and they were too lightly equipped to be able to do it for long. Their main responsibility was to find the enemy and report back to the commander; fighting the enemy was almost a secondary task. It often led to dead scouts.

Strickman laughed at Ashton's comment. "Well," he said in response, "the "personnel god" is this close," he held up his thumb and forefinger with only a tiny space between them, "to being a combat soldier so he gets away with saying whatever he wants. He's also the best shot in headquarters company so we don't mess with him much. Unless our pay is jacked up, that is, then we give him all sorts of hell. He always fixes it like it's the easiest thing in the world, though." Strickman glanced over at Morgan, still smiling. "Just like a god waving his hand. The problems of us mere mortals just disappear when he does that."

"The best shot, you say? He didn't mention that during our conversations."

"Of course not," said Strickman, his smile broadening as Morgan blushed brightly. "He aced every range we had during train-up, by the way, even a few he didn't have to do. As far as telling anyone, he lets his acolytes, like me, do his bragging for him."

"If you're really good, say nothing," replied Morgan, almost in a whisper. "If you're truly as good as you think you are, others will tell you."

Strickman snapped his fingers and pointed at Morgan. "Exactly. And that's what we do."

"I believe," added Ashton, "what he would enjoy just as much as the praises of his admirers would be the opportunity to accompany them on some real world missions."

"Really?" Strickman asked. He glanced at Morgan for confirmation. Morgan nodded. "Why didn't you say anything? I'd have brought you along anytime you liked."

Morgan shrugged. "I wanted to be invited, not to beg. Well," he continued with a sideways glance at Barrett, "I have sort of begged to Captains Barrett and Bunt, but it hasn't led to anything yet."

"Is it really that important to you?" asked Barrett.

"Yes, sir, it is," answered Morgan, sitting up straighter as he replied. "It pains me every day to be cooped up in that staff tent and see my friends go out there. I know my duty location is in front of that laptop writing those oporders. It still bothers me, though."

Strickman smiled again. "I take it back. You're not almost a combat soldier. You are one. You're a real soldier disguised in REMF's clothing."

Morgan was sipping his juice when Strickman said this. The laughter resulting from his comment immediately devolved into a series of choking coughs. Slapping his chest several times forcefully, Morgan glared at Strickman with a playful grin. "Well, fuck you very much, Tim Strickman," he replied.

"You're quite welcome, Daniel J. Morgan."

The four men's laughter was so loud that the rest of the diners looked across the room to see what was happening.

xxxxxxxxxx

Specialist Morgan listened intently as a member of the mortar platoon, Sergeant Flint Winters, ran through his description of events one more time. The 180th Armor's operations sergeant major, Sergeant Major Joe Wagner, a tall, impossibly thin man with closely cropped white hair, and Captain Bunt, sat huddled near Bunt's laptop workstation listening, as well. Ashton, with nothing really to do, stood nearby.

When the 180th Armor Battalion had been assigned to Mahmudiyah three months ago, a company of artillerymen from the 191st Artillery Battalion had been detached to them to act in a counter battery fire role. This left the battalion's heavy mortar platoon, since the ranges involved for those fire missions were within their capabilities, as well, without a purpose. Not long afterward, however, the attached explosive ordnance disposal teams had requested two squads of infantry soldiers from Charlie Company, 176th Infantry, the company of Alabama National Guardsmen had also been attached to the 180th. The EOD teams wanted the infantrymen to act as a security element for them whenever they were sent out to deal with the myriad of IEDs (improvised explosive devices) in the Triangle. Lieutenant Colonel Rey had done them one better. He gave them a platoon of infantrymen; mortarmen are MOS eleven charlie, indirect fire infantrymen, thoroughly trained as infantry and also in the use of light, medium, and heavy mortars. The EOD teams were ecstatic. So was the mortar platoon.

Sergeant Winters continued his brief. "Everything was going pretty normally for us when we rolled up. We set up a perimeter and the EOD team moved in to assess the IED. It was quiet for about ten minutes, but then the attack began. RPGs, AKs, light machine guns, you name it, all coming from the southeast where the EOD team was. We think they were the real target of the attack. We had a section in that area and returned fire but it wasn't enough. We had to reposition men in order to place more fire on them.

"The enemy was massed in fairly significant numbers. I'm guessing forty or so. And they were good. They weren't just firing indiscriminately. They were putting down some good fire on us. Specialist Reynolds and Sergeant Patton were hit pretty early on. That's why we couldn't get the fifty cals employed right away. They were suppressing the HMWWVs heavily to keep us from getting to them. Finally, we were able to get a little bit of fire superiority, at least enough so that PFC Allen was able to get to one of the fifties and get it operational while Sergeant Hanlon covered him. Allen laid out some very effective fire and broke up the AIF that was suppressing us. Only about half of them, we think, were able to break contact with us."

Sergeant Major Wagner nodded as he flipped through the digital photographs on the laptop. Morgan looked at them as they scrolled over the screen. Here was a HMWWV with hundreds of pockmarks and all of its tires flattened. There was one picture each of Specialist Reynolds and Seregant Patton, both still alive, as they were loaded into another vehicle. Finally, there were the photos of the broken bodies of the insurgents.

Ashton watched Morgan's reaction as a close-up of one insurgent was displayed. It showed the man's body from the shoulders up. He had been hit in the face by a bullet. His head had opened up from the nose to the top of his head. The halves of his skull lay unfolded to either side toward each shoulder. Morgan did not flinch in the slightest.

 _Even though he's been inside these walls the whole time, he's seen so many of these sights by now they're completely normal to him. A few months ago, I'm sure, he would have been aghast at the sight._

The sergeant major and the captain remained silent, still absorbing the photos. Morgan blinked and turned to face Winters, a thought clear in his expression.

"Was there anything else, Flint? Did you notice anything that stood out to you? Anything odd?"

Ashton smiled to himself. _That's right. Morgan did say the mortar platoon was part of his company. Such familiarity would be expected between them. And that was an excellent question, my boy._

As if realizing the same thought, Bunt and Wagner both turned sharply to Morgan, perhaps shocked they had not asked the question first, before turning to Winters. The young sergeant was chewing a knuckle.

"There was, actually. Off in the distance, I saw a guy. He was sort of concealed, but not very well. Maybe he was a civilian, maybe he wasn't. He wasn't shooting at us so I didn't really pay attention to him at the time. The thing was he was just watching us. Watching us the whole time. Now that I think about it, why would someone just stand there and watch a firefight and not run for safety?"

Captain Bunt's jaw dropped as he heard this. He looked across the staff tent. "Barrett. You're going to want to hear this."

Morgan bit his lower lip, his eyes on the floor. Looking back up at Winters, he said, "If I had to guess, I'd say he was observing your TTPs (tactics, techniques, and procedures)."

"Oh, shit," replied Sergeant Major Wagner. "If that's true…" He let the comment hang in the air.

Barrett arrived and Winters repeated what he had seen. Bunt had Morgan recount his theory, as well. Barrett nodded.

"That would make sense. We've noticed gradual changes in their TTPs since we got here. Having someone observe us and adjusting to our methods makes perfect sense. I'm going to check with the neighboring battalions and see if they've noticed anything similar." Glancing at Winters, he said, "Thank you, Sergeant Winters," and walked away, muttering thoughts under his breath.

"And then things got even worse for you after the firefight, right, Flint?" asked Bunt.

Morgan's eyes shifted to Bunt for a moment. The captain was usually more professional in his manner of addressing soldiers. However, since Winters had already told the story once before and, as they already knew, the repercussions were coming, Bunt was being gentle with him.

"Yes, sir. After the AIF cleared out, we found a wire leading to what we thought was a secondary device hidden under a bush. To make things more difficult, residents from the nearby town were gathering around us by now and getting in the way. There was this one old lady who was standing near the bush. I was shouting at her in Arabic to get away from it. I thought she was going to try to detonate it. I shouted again and said if she didn't step away I would shoot. She just stood there looking at the bush. When she stepped closer, I raised my M4 and fired once."

Winters' eyes fell to the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was much softer. The staccato tone of an NCO recounting a mission was gone. This was a troubled young man in his twenties revealing his feelings to trusted men. "I've been praying about that ever since I pulled that trigger. I can't think of anything else I could have done. She fell down right away and was dead a minute later. She wasn't an insurgent. She was just an eighty-two year old deaf woman. She never heard me and she died for no reason."

Winters sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. "The mayor of the little town was standing there when it happened. He spoke some English and he knew her. He was so calm about it even though he had tears in his eyes. He said he had known her all his life. He put his hand on my shoulder and said it wasn't my fault, that I tried to stop her. That I had no choice because I thought there was a threat."

Winters hung his head and took several deep breaths. His eyes were misty when he looked up again. "What happens now, sir?" He was trying to bring the professional tone back into his voice, but was having difficulty.

Sergeant Major Wagner kept his voice low as he replied. "They'll do a 15-6 on the event, of course," he said, referring to the Army regulation for official investigations. "I am absolutely positive Captain Conrad, who will be the investigating officer, will come to the same conclusion as the mayor. Based on what you knew _at the time_ and not after the shoot, you what justified in what you did. I don't think there will be any negative consequences other than those you heap on yourself."

Winters nodded. "That doesn't make it any easier, Sergeant Major. I came here to do what was right, not to kill old women."

"It won't be easy, but you will be able to get through this," stated Bunt. "I know you, Flint, and you're not the type to crumble under this weight. Keep praying like you said you've been doing. Let us do our part and you do yours. This will pass."

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven," quoted Morgan. "a time to kill, and a time to heal; time to mourn, and a time to dance."

Weathers looked appreciatively at Morgan. "Thank you. You're right."

Morgan smiled slightly. "I don't like using partial quotes, but this seemed to fit the situation. I hope that's okay."

"Yes, it's fine," replied Winters. "And you're right." He straightened. "I'll heal from this. I will dance again. After this trial of mine has passed me by. Thank you."

A high-pitched squeaking interrupted the men's conversation. Morgan turned back to his workstation and looked under the folding table.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, kneeling down from his chair and bending under the table. He came back up holding a white pad in one hand. The top of the pad was coated with a centimeter of thick adhesive. In the center of the pad was a dollop of MRE peanut butter. Next to the peanut butter, struggling to escape, was a grey mouse.

"Our latest prisoner," stated Morgan. Staring directly at the mouse, he proclaimed, "We charge you with being an unsanitary pest, find you guilty of the same, and hereby sentence you to death."

He looked up at the others. "Now, we just have to decide how to end this guy. I've already killed two today."

"How did you do those?" asked Wagner.

"The first, I crushed under my boot. The other one, about two hours ago, since he was, as I said, unsanitary, I tossed into the porta-john and let him sink in the slop."

"You're a sick fucker, Morgan," affirmed Bunt, though he smiled all the same.

Morgan shrugged and grinned. "When, in the entire time you have known me, have I ever claimed to be a nice person?"

Bunt put his fist under his chin in a facade of contemplation. "Never, now that I think about it."

"May I offer a suggestion?" offered Ashton.

The four men turned to face the Immortal. Their expressions made it clear they had forgotten he had been standing there.

"Sure, sir," answered Wagner.

Smiling, Ashton withdrew a folding knife from his pocket. "Since our good specialist has already said he executed one mouse by way of sewage, why not end this one by the opposite method?" He pointed to the unopened bottle of water next to Wagner's laptop. With his own devious grin, Wagner tossed the bottle to the brigadier.

Ashton twisted off the bottle's cap and drank some of its contents. He then stepped over to the table and, placing it on the surface, opened his knife and proceeded to cut around the top of it. He partially removed a section of bottle, leaving an exposure the circumference of the bottle. The bottle's top hung off to the side.

"That should be sufficient space, I would think," he said, folding the knife and putting it back in his pocket. He held out his hand for the pad. Morgan gave it to him. Ashton contemplated the captive rodent for a moment.

"Goodbye, little friend. Your sentence shall now be carried out."

With that, Ashton folded the sides of the pad gently against the mouse and turned it upright. The mouse's head was facing skyward. He then inserted the entire pad, mouse and all, into the bottle and folded the top back into place. The water level was now back where it had been before the cap had been removed.

The mouse, at the center of the pad, was completely underwater. Its reaction was immediate. It spastically struggled both for breath and to escape the adhesive. One leg came loose from the pad, but other then that, it was held fast. Its desperate battle for air continued. All the while, the five soldiers stood or sat around the battle, chuckling as the animal drowned. After a minute, the mouse went limp and the bubbles from its snout ceased. The show was over.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Let me tell you a story about two stupid people," said Morgan that evening. "If Colonel Rey doesn't object to me airing dirty laundry, that is." Morgan shifted his gaze to his battalion commander. Rey sat on the other side of the semi-circle made up of various members of NextGen men and 180th Armor men. They lounged in metal and polyester sports chairs in NextGen's tent area. Besides Ashton and Dublin, Major Burke, and Warrant Officer Griffin, and Sergeant Sather were present. Also seated there were Sergeant Aaron Templar, a fire direction specialist who worked immediately next to Morgan, Sergeant Strickman, and Specialist Jay, along with a few others. All were enjoying the contents of Morgan's humidor.

"Which stupid people are these?" asked Rey. Other than a furrowing of his brow, he remained relaxed, his legs crossed and the smoldering cigar in his teeth.

"Private Parsons and Specialist Collette," replied Morgan.

Rey removed the cigar from his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Oh, those motherfuckers," he said, a twisted grin on his lips. "Fuck 'em. Tell away. I have no sympathy for…" Rey stopped mid-sentence when Morgan swiftly held up his hand.

"Please don't spoil the story, sir," Morgan warned.

"Oh, right." Rey puffed on his cigar again. "Please continue."

"Alright," began Morgan, settling back into his chair. He extended his legs leisurely and crossed his ankles. "Back in January while we were at Fort Stewart, Georgia, at the very start of our mobilization, we had two soldiers give us a good bit of a headache. I'll start with Parsons.

"Private Jeremy Parsons was a cook in Detachment One of Headquarters Company, the unit where I worked at a personnel and readiness NCO. This guy was a problem from the day he arrived at the unit. He wasn't intentionally malicious, per se; he was just stupid. I never looked at his entry test scores to be sure - the armed forces test scores are actually an intelligence test, if you didn't know that, by the way - but I am very sure his scores were quite low. I am actually quite surprised he was able to make it through his training. I'd bet money that he needed a lot of help along the way with the academics, even if it was just how to follow a recipe or maintain his equipment.

"Here's an example of the kind of thing he would do, how he would mess up and not even realize it. One time, at a weekend drill, he showed up for morning formation and immediately failed the initial inspection. His platoon sergeant brought him into my office. I was talking to Staff Sergeant Randall, my supervisor, when they came in, and only glanced at them, at first. I did a double-take, though. It wasn't the kid's uniform that was at fault. It was his haircut."

For the benefit of the British soldiers, Morgan explained. "I'm sure you guys have similar regulations, but in the U.S. Army, we have rules against faddish haircuts. Only short, conservative hairstyles are allowed. Well, Parsons had something quite different. It was short, yes, but along his temples, he had something quite odd. On each side of his head, he had three arrows cut into his hair. He called it a triple-edge. He just could not understand what was wrong with it since his hair was still short.

"I had to take this kid to a barber shop that was open on Saturdays and get a new haircut for him. To make it worse, since he didn't have a bank card, I had to use my own money to pay for it. His platoon sergeant was not happy when he heard about that and made sure the kid had every crappy detail that came up for the rest of the weekend.

"Well, here is what happened at Fort Stewart. The first time we let the guys have a little bit of time off, Parsons goes into Hinesville, the town near Fort Stewart, and goes to a strip club. He has just been paid and, I assume, started drinking even though he eds underage. He let himself get smitten by some stripper working at the club and let himself come to believe that they are going to get married. At least, that is the story he told the other soldiers with him. He never came back to Fort Stewart. He just ran off with this stripper and we never saw him again."

"At least until CID (Criminal Investigation Division) found him a few days later and threw him in jail," interjected Colonel Rey with a grin. "By that time, he's completely broke and I throw the book at him. He's scrubbing pots in a military prison now."

"Exactly," finished Morgan, smiling himself. "That one ended nice and easily for us. We didn't have to do much of anything but wait. In fact, now that I think of it, the next one ended kind of the same way, didn't it?"

Rey nodded, chuckling to himself. Morgan laughed and took a drag off his cigar. He paused to sip from his bottle of flavored water before continuing.

"The next guy is Specialist Everett Collette, an armor crewman who had been in our company for several years. This guy had also never been very sharp, but he had at least been dependable during those years. I was quite surprised when he did what he did.

"Well, a few weeks after Parsons disappeared, we had another weekend during which we let the guys have some free time. It was also shortly after we had just been issued our new uniforms and equipment with the new camouflage pattern." Morgan tugged on his sleeve to indicate the pattern he wore. "We were the first National Guard brigade to receive these uniforms, by the way."

"On Monday morning, we received a report that Specialist Collette was not among those who had returned the night before. Being in the personnel section at the time, my first action was to mark him as not present for duty. We would list him as AWOL (Absent Without Leave) later on. We hoped he was just sleeping late or some other easily explainable mishap and kept on with our duties, but he never appeared.

"Another interesting thing that was noticed at the time was the battalion sergeant major, Sergeant Major Doal, noticed a shortage in the number of challenge coins he had in his desk drawer. He went around the office asking us if we had taken them. He actually grilled me pretty hard, thinking I had taken them, and searched my desk looking for them. I have another story about him for later, again if Colonel Rey approves."

"Fuck him," replied Rey.

Morgan smiled. "Alright. Continuing on, about a week later, I got an email from a friend in the town where our National Guard company is located. It had an article from a local newspaper attached to it. Low and behold, but who was in a picture in that article, in uniform and shaking hands with a local business owner, but Specialist Collette, all happy and smiling. It turned out that Collette worked for the business owner that made the uniforms we were now wearing and had presented him with a unit challenge coin, saying it was a gift from the battalion commander in thanks for supporting the unit's deployment.

"What Collette had apparently forgotten was Colonel Rey is a police officer in the civilian world. Colonel Rey happened to be walking by as I was reading the article." Morgan gestured to Rey. "Would you like to take the rest of this, sir?"

Smiling, Rey uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "Yes, thank you." Rey puffed his cigar once and placed his elbows on his knees. "Morgan called me over as I was walking through the staff area on the way to talk to the S1 and had me look at the article. I remember getting a huge grin on my face and saying something like, "That stupid motherfucker," as I reached for my cell phone. I was actually so excited that I dropped it and Morgan caught it for me. I called the chief of the Calhoun Police Department, who is a friend of mine, and told him what I was reading and had Morgan forward the article to him. They had Collette in cuffs an hour later.

"The best part," continued Rey," was at Collette's court martial, the most damning evidence against him was that very article. All it took was seeing that picture of his idiotic, smiling face for the panel to convict him of all counts against him. He's probably getting buttfucked in Leavenworth as we speak right now. Even prisoners hate AWOLs."

The circle of men chuckled and puffed their cigars. Ashton, seated next to Rey, clapped the man on the shoulder, before looking back at Morgan.

"And what about your sergeant major?" he asked.

"Oh," replied Morgan. "I don't think anyone will mind hearing about this one. It's a bit of an administrative coup, but it's still funny, if you like minor embarrassments."

"It wasn't minor for him," said Rey. "He came whining to me the day it happened and demanded I bust you to private E1. I just laughed in his face. Tell them about it."

"Okay, sir," said Morgan, settling into his crossed-ankle pose again. "This was sometime in February or so. Even though we were neck deep into the pre-deployment training, we in the personnel section still had to keep up with all of the usual responsibilities of unit administration. I was responsible for two detachments, about one hundred twenty guys." Among the circle, Jay and Strickman nodded.

"One of those responsibilities was the preparation of promotion eligibility packets for the soldiers. I had prepared these months ago and forwarded them up to the battalion sergeant major on a transmittal record, a form that he had to sign before he could receive the packets. I also was in the habit of keeping binders containing copies of anything on those transmittal records.

"Well, on that fateful February morning, Sergeant Major Doal, in front of the battalion S1, the S1 NCO, and the operations officer, comes up to me and says he never received the promotion packets for anyone in my two detachments. He then says, since he doesn't have them, I must have lost them. I replied that he had them and had signed for them months ago. He denied it and, in a louder voice, called me a liar.

"I repeated myself as respectfully as I could while opening a desk drawer and pulling out a thick binder. Sergeant Major Doal again said I was lying and that I was going to be punished for losing the packets and for lying to him. He even pointed to the others in the room and said that he had witnesses to my lying to him. I shook my head and opened the binder. Once more, I said he had received the packets several months before. This time, he even curled up his fists and said if he wasn't a better NCO, he would punch me right there. I finished flipping through the binder and pointed to the bottom of a page.

"Sergeant Major," I said, "Is that your signature at the bottom of this DA Form 200?

"He looked at the page and said it was. I then pointed to the remarks area and asked him what it said was written there. I was pointing at the top where it said, "Detachment One, Alpha Company, 180th Armor, Promotion Packets." Beneath that was an itemized list of names.

"I then flipped to another page where it read "Detachment One, Headquarters Company, 180th Armor, Promotion Packets" and also had an itemized list and his signature. He demanded that I give him the copies in that binder.

"No, Sergeant Major," I replied. "I will make copies of these and you will sign another transmittal record for all of them and it will say that they are replacements for the copies you lost. He said nothing as I stood and walked over to the copier and made copies of everything.

"While I was doing the copying, Sergeant Major Doal and the S1 NCO walked away. The S1 officer and the S3 both told me, "That was awesome," while the S1 NCO called me into his office and cussed me out for being so disrespectful to the sergeant major. He also wanted to have me busted for that action but, according to the S1 officer, Colonel Rey stopped it when he tried. Sergeant Major Doal signed for everything and just grumbled. He didn't speak to me again for weeks."

"Doal always was an ass," commented Rey. "I fired him a while ago for fraternization with a junior enlisted female. I found him with her, both nude, and with a substantial amount of African-American pornography. Both are against my command policy, not the type of porn, just the porn itself, and they both had to go. Doal is now in charge of a dining facility somewhere at Camp Liberty. Fuck him. Our new command sergeant major is a vast improvement over him. Well, that's enough of our dirty laundry for now, I think. Let's enjoy the cigars."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 August 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"Alright," announced Johnny. "Let's get this spar going."

The teenaged Immortal grinned as he squared off with his opponent. Across from him, Tristan did not look so confident.

"Are you sure we should be using our real blades for this?"

"Absolutely. You have to learn to do it eventually." Johnny grinned reassuringly. "Besides, as David loves to say, nothing teaches you better how to learn countering someone trying to disembowel you than when someone is actually trying to disembowel you."

Tristan shuddered. "That's not very comforting, you know."

"Actually, he was talking about empty-handed fighting and mentioned someone breaking your nose, but the same rule applies, right?"

"That's even worse," complained Tristan.

"I'm not actually going to disembowel you, Tristan," Johnny promised. "I might cut you here and there, but it won't be too bad."

Tristan stared at the karambits in his hands. "Suddenly, these don't seem like very much protection against an actual sword."

"And that, my friend, is exactly why you need to learn to actually spar with them. You've done it with Asami with plastic blades and you've learned more from her in the past year than most could in five. Now it's time to do this for real."

Johnny slowly drew his wakizashi from its scabbard. Bending slightly, he slid the scabbard across the floor and out of the way. At the same time, Tristan flexed his fingers around the grips of the karambits. Both blades of the small weapons were pointing upward out of his tiny fists.

With only the slightest of a flourish, Johnny fell into a ready position. He eyed his opponent intently. Tristan lowered himself into one of the many positions Asami had taught him. He waited for Johnny to move first.

Tristan did not have to wait long. Johnny took one step forward and, with a loud shout, opened up with a horizontal strike toward Tristan's neck. Tristan stepped back, letting the blade slash in front of his face. The cold wind of its passing chilled his blood.

He was not aware of his next several movements. He only knew that a second later he and Johnny had changed positions. He felt warm blood sliding down his stomach. The burning across his left pectoral told him he had been cut. He did not look down. He kept his eyes on his opponent. Johnny, on the other hand, was also injured. Blood was visible on his left forearm and his shirt was slashed on the right side. Johnny released the handle of his wakizashi with his left hand and flicked a wad of blood from his palm. He then gripped the weapon again.

The two boys met again, their ferocity belying their friendship. At one point as they exchanged blows, their blades even met once. Tristan's left hand was forced downward and he had to step back in order to avoid being cut again. He soon realized he had not escaped unscathed. His right shoulder burned fiercely from a strike he thought he had been able to redirect away from him. Blood also seeped down his leg from a wound on his right thigh. Johnny had been opened four additional times on his torso and arms, as well.

Panting for breath, the boys stepped forward once more. Johnny blade came down in an overhead strike, his intimidating shout searing through Tristan's mind. The smaller boy stepped to the right and forward, passing his opponent, sweeping his karambits' blades across Johnny's side and upper arm as he moved. Johnny pivoted on his heel, driving the pommel of his sword toward Tristan's temple.

Tristan raised a hand instinctively as he moved to the side. The pommel smashed into his fingers, snapping two fingers. Tristan screamed as the karambit slipped from his grasp. Johnny followed up with a diagonal cut, aiming to start at Tristan's right shoulder. Tristan moved forward. The blade struck his collarbone. The smaller boy's mangled fist drove into Johnny's still bleeding abdomen. Johnny's blade slid from Tristan's shoulder and they both collapsed onto the floor.

Flat on his back, Johnny gasped in agony, his breath burning in his lungs. The _systema_ strike had done its job well. He felt nothing but pain from his neck to his groin. As he heaved for air, his eyes sought his lost wakizashi. It lay two meters from him, out of reach. He looked over at Tristan. The boy lay moaning, almost whimpering, facedown on the floor, blood flowing from his wounds. From the angle of his left arm, his collarbone had been completely broken. With his savaged right hand, he was slowly trying to find the right leverage to start standing. Johnny nodded, at least mentally, since it hurt too much to do so in reality. In a real fight, the first one of them to stand and retrieve his weapon would be the victor. With a groan, he fought to do the same.

Sixty seconds passed as the boys battled their own bodies, immortal or not, in order to stand up. Johnny rolled onto his stomach and drew his knees underneath him. His lungs were still on fire. He raised his head glacially to gauge Tristan's progress. The other boy was in essentially the same position as he, looking across at Johnny.

"Draw?" asked Tristan through gritted teeth.

"Yeah," gasped Johnny, a smile spreading slowly across his lips. "Let's say that."

Light clapping from the other side of the training hall invaded the boys' ears as they lay suffering on the floor. Asami, Paula, and Alyssa applauded their efforts. Asami even let out a short, uncharacteristic hoot of cheer, mostly for the fact they were both still intact after it all. She was quite familiar with the sparring style Johnny and Ashton used and it was not uncommon for small appendages to be lying on the floor at the end of a match.

"That was incredible, Tristan," Asami chirped as she trotted toward his prone form. "I'm impressed. Proving you can hold your own against someone like Johnny is quite a feat." She dropped to a knee and took Tristan's now mended right hand to help him stand.

Alyssa and Paula were now offering the same assistance to Johnny. "And those were some very kind words you said about Asami's training," commented Alyssa, putting an arm around her shoulder.

With another painful gasp as he was brought to his feet, Johnny smiled. "I meant it, but I was also trying to butter her up for a chance to make a move on her and get a nice hug and a kiss later on tonight." Asami grinned at him. "Hey, a boy can hope."

"I'd give them to you anyway, Johnny," Asami asserted easily. "It's not like you have to play me for it."

"What the fun in that?"

Asami chuckled. "Oh, Johnny Fair, what will I do with you?"

"I already said what you can do with me," he grinned painfully.

She laughed again and shook her head. She turned and walked Tristan gradually off the training floor. Easing him into a chair, she eyed his cleaved collarbone and shoulder.

"Is there anything I can do to help with this?" she asked, pointing at the wound, but not touching it.

"I don't think so," Tristan replied, his voice almost a hiss of pain.

"Try rolling your shoulders," suggested Paula. "It could help reset the bone as it's healing. Sometimes, it helps anyway. Other times, it just hurts like hell."

Tristan straightened his back and rolled his shoulders with, at least for him, maddening sluggishness as agony shot through his body with each minute movement. He felt a crackling, popping shift in his shoulder. Three rapid heartbeats later, a significant measure of his pain vanished. He sighed and slumped back, almost wanting to cry in relief.

"Oh, God," he heard Johnny mutter next to him. Shifting only his eyes to the left to look at his friend, he saw the other boy break free from the grasp of the two women and launch himself toward the wall. He landed on his knees in front of a small waste bin. He gripped the sides of it and lowered his face into its center. There was a horrid, sloppy retching sound. When Johnny rose again, his face was pale. He eyed Tristan with a dark, though humorous expression.

"Damn it, Tristan. For such a little guy, you pack one hell of a punch."

Paula giggled at Johnny's remark. Coughing, he turned to face her. "Hey, you try him out if you think it's so funny." He was able to bring a trace of a smirk to his face despite his remaining pain. "You can hardly laugh about the "little guy" bit since you and I are the same height."

Giggling again, Paula nodded. "That's true, but I think I'll pass. Thank you." She eyed the training mats with its barely discernible spattering of blood. "I wouldn't mind a spar, though. Maybe something to show that you boys aren't the only ones with skills." Her eyes flicked across to Asami. "What do you say, Asami? Want to try it out?"

Asami smiled at the challenge and stood up straight. She was opening her mouth to respond when Alyssa turned and interrupted her.

"How about I spar with you, Paula?" she suggested. "That way you don't have to wait while she's putting on padding and armor. We can just get right down to it like the boys did."

"It's no trouble, Alyssa. It won't take me long to get ready," protested Asami.

Paula replied, "No, she makes a lot of sense. Okay, let's do that." Her expression hinted at her disappointment. Asami nodded, obviously let down, as well.

The two women left the training hall briefly to run up to their bedrooms and fetch their weapons. Johnny, and Tristan, sufficiently recovered by now, upon Asami's suggestion, hastily cleaned the mats of the mess made by their previous match. They had just stowed the cleaning supplies and returned to their seats when Paula and Alyssa came back into the hall. Each carried a sword in one hand and a secondary weapon, a dagger of some sort, in the other. They had also changed into clothing more appropriate to sparring, in other words, something they did not mind having cut up during the match.

The women stood off to the side and buckled their weapons around their waists. Paula's weapon of choice was a curved English cutlass, its blade nearly sixty-five centimeters (twenty-five and a half inches) long, positioned on her left hip. On her right was a long, black-handled Medici dagger. She rolled her shoulders and stretched while Alyssa made herself ready. Alyssa's equipment consisted of a two-handed Messerfeder sword with a seventy-two centimeter (twenty-eight inch) blade and a World War Two Hungarian bayonet. The Messerfeder, though longer than the cutlass Paula used, was actually quite lightweight; at nine hundred seventy-five grams (two pounds, two ounces), it was twenty grams lighter than the cutlass.

Nodding to each other, the women walked silently to the center of the mats. They eyed each other carefully as they slowly drew their swords from their scabbards and held them ready, Paula's held out to the side in a one-handed grip, Alyssa's up by her head in both hands. They stood still and waited.

" _Hajime_ (Begin)," said Asami, folding her arms and watching the pair with judging eyes.

Paula moved in first, hoping to close and make use of her shorter weapon before her opponent could react. Her cutlass swept to her left and up, arcing toward Alyssa's right hip. The other Immortal stepped back rather than attempting to block or redirect the attack. Her own blade lashed out in a horizontal strike. The counterattack forced Paula to duck and scamper back as the Messerfeder slashed over her head.

" _Sheisse_ (Shit)!" she cursed as she recovered her stance. She had little time to do so. Alyssa was already stepping forward to press her advantage.

The two Immortals were nearly an even match physically. Though several years differentiated them on a biological level, Alyssa being fifteen and Paula twenty-four, Alyssa was actually five centimeters taller than Paula and had a two kilogram weight advantage over her. Height and weight were not the only factors, however. Paula had been able to evade the counterstrike which Alyssa had intended on pulling short so as not to decapitate her. This proved a distinct speed ability on the blonde woman's part. Both of them were in superb physical condition, as well. Respective skill with their individual weapons, however, was yet to be determined.

Alyssa's blade flashed, coming in at hip level in another horizontal attack. Paula's cutlass impacted the Messerfeder at the German's right side and swept up, catching the other blade by the hand guard. Paula slashed downward in a diagonal angle as Alyssa stepped back again. Metal screeched against metal. The teenager was left with a crimson streak from her right shoulder to her chest. She gasped but gave no other sign of pain.

It was Paula's time to press the attack. Her cutlass cut the air in a blur, twice being redirected by Alyssa's blade. The third attempt was a thrust to the teen's midsection. Alyssa sidestepped the attack and lunged forward, driving the pommel of her sword into Paula's jaw. An audible crack echoed throughout the hall as the blonde woman was knocked to the floor.

Her opponent giving no sign of concession, Alyssa took another step and thrust her sword toward the prone woman. Paula rolled to the side and rose to her hands and knees. Alyssa waited while she regained her feet.

Paula slowly stood, wiping a sleeve across her bloodied lips. Eyeing her soiled arm, she regarded the girl in front of her. Her eyes narrowed. In a low tone, she hissed, " _Jou Joodse saat sokkie."_ She then straightened fully and attacked again with renewed energy.

The vigor behind the German woman's strikes took Alyssa by surprise. She backpedalled quickly and raised her blade, blocking or dodging the attacks as best as she could. Twice she was unable to do so and took new wounds across her torso. She could not counterattack; she could only retreat. She brought her blade up once more but felt it swept aside in a twisting maneuver. The Messerfeder was torn from her grasp. Alyssa felt the cutlass's handguard slam into her jaw in an uppercut. Her teeth crunched together with such force that she felt some of them crack. Dazed, the teenaged Immortal could not keep her feet; she slumped to her hands and knees.

" _Yame!_ (Stop!)" screamed Asami, her commanding voice breaking through Alyssa's haze. She glanced to the side. Johnny and Tristan were pale as sheets. _What's up with them? It's just a spar._ Slowly looking up, she saw the reason. Paula stood to her side, her feet shoulder-width apart, her cutlass raised over her head and ready for the final, decapitating blow. The woman's breathing was as wild as her eyes. Alyssa's own eyes went wide. _Oh, shit. No wonder they were so frightened._

Rolling aside, Alyssa rose to wobbly feet. She eyed the German woman carefully. "Paula?" she asked softly. "Are you okay?" Every word she spoke ached through her brittle teeth.

Her rapid breathing gradually coming under control, Paula looked around the training hall. She blinked several times, almost as if coming out of a trance, and lowered her cutlass to her side. She put her free hand to her lip again. Smirking, she said in a soft, reassuring tone, "Yeah, I think so. I'm so sorry. I just lost my temper and got carried away, I think. Will you please forgive me?"

xxxxxxxxxx

10 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

"Well, will you lookie here," remarked Specialist Morgan, ducking his head under the table of his workstation.

"What's up?" asked Captain Bunt, his eyes still focused on his laptop. After years of working with Morgan, he was used to the young man's occasionally erratic, and sometimes childishly playful, actions and manner of speaking. It was just his personality. Morgan reappeared with a sticky pad in his hand, another captured mouse struggling in its center.

"Our first catch of the day," stated Morgan. "Now, like always, we have to figure out how to end him." Morgan's eyes fluttered up to the tent ceiling for a moment. "I can't ask the chaplain. He killed one yesterday and more than one a week for him is asking too much. We did a water bottle with Brigadier Ashton. I did the portajohn. Captain Barrett shot one with his M9. Sergeant Strickman blew one up with an MRE bomb. I think we're running out of ideas here."

Morgan heard a chuckle behind him as a finger tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up to see Sergeant Major Wagner standing there. The white-haired man was grinning, something he did not often do except around trusted friends.

"I've got an idea," admitted the Sergeant Major. He motioned with two fingers in a come-along gesture. "Come on." Morgan picked up his rifle and followed him. They paused at the tent's entrance to don their body armor and helmets. They walked five meters away from the staff tent and the M577 command post vehicle backed up near its doorway.

"Hello, Sergeant Major. Out for a stroll?"

The pair looked up to see Ashton and Dublin walking toward them. They grinned. "No, sir. Morgan caught another mouse and had run out of ways to kill them. I had an idea and we were about to try it."

"Oh?" inquired Ashton. "And what's that?"

Wagner indicated the canal by which they stood. "That." The sergeant major shook a cigarette from his pack, and put it to his lips. As he did so, Morgan was reminded that never, in the ten years he had known the man, had he ever seen him eat, only smoke cigarettes and drink coffee. Wagner offered the pack to Ashton, who shook his head, then to Dublin, who accepted. Turning back to Morgan, he said, "Throw that motherfucker in the canal, Morgan."

Morgan lifted the pad, taking a final look at the struggling, squeaking mouse. Its black eyes looked directly into his for a long second. Then, with a mischievous grin, he spun it into the canal like a Frisbee. Beside him, Sergeant Major Wagner lit his cigarette and chuckled softly. So did the two NextGen men. Morgan regarded the pad and smirked silently.

The sticky pad had landed hard, at least for a mouse, in the center of the canal. The concussion of the impact had rendered the mouse unconscious and its struggle to escape had ceased. Water slowly began to rise over the sides of the pad. The four men's chuckling rose to full laughter. Dublin pointed and said, "Take that, you pointy-eared bastard."

A rivulet of water streamed across the pad toward the oblivious rodent. It reached the mouse's nose. The men laughed louder. The mouse sneezed and opened its eyes. Raising its head slightly, it looked about. Realizing its predicament, the tiny rodent began to flail about on the pad. The adhesive held firm, adding to the mouse's horror. It fought harder. The men by the canal laughed all the more, the Americans even doubling over by now and pointing. Finally, the mouse's thrashing was so intense, it flipped the pad over in the water.

"Well, I guess that's it for the mouse," stated Sergeant Major Wagner, struggling to breathe and straighten himself.

"Wait," said Morgan, pointing. "Look at that."

At first, none of the other three men saw it. They squinted their eyes. At last, they saw what Morgan saw. On the far side of the pad, the side nearest Morgan, a tiny claw was extended out of the water and gripping the non-adhesive side of the pad. An instant later, on another side, the tip of a little snout popped out of the water.

"Well, fuck me," blurted Wagner, a grin on his face.

The men watched in unabashed amazement as another claw appeared on a third side of the pad.

"Well, fuck me," repeated Wagner.

The rest became apparent quickly. The canal water was weakening the adhesive on the pad enough for the mouse to struggle free of it. By now, it had its head above water and was slowly pulling itself onto the other side of the pad. Like flipping a switch, the four men who had been laughing at the apparent death of the mouse began to cheer for its attempt to escape.

"Go, go, go," they chanted as one, pumping their fists in the air, and giving the occasional "whoop," as well.

The mouse now had its shoulders above water and shifted its forepaws to the front. Glacially, it dragged itself forward. It reached out, grasping the sides of the pad with its claws and pulling itself out of the water. After fifteen seconds of valiant struggle, it was completely on the pad. It stood and shook itself like a tiny dog. Glancing back almost hatefully at the four men behind it, the mouse dove into the water and swam to the far side of the canal. All the while, the soldiers continued to cheer. As the mouse pulled its tiny body ashore and disappeared into the brush, the four men raised their hands into the air and shouted, "Yeah!"

Slapping each other on the backs, the men made their way back to the staff tent, huge grins on their faces. As they walked, Morgan commented, "Even if a snake or a cat gets him a minute from now, that little guy has earned every extra moment of life he got." The other men guffawed and continued toward the tent.

As they dallied inside the tent entrance and removed their armor, Morgan's face paled slightly. "Oh, shit," he said.

"What is it?" asked Wagner, setting his helmet on the custom-made wooden stand designed to hold their gear.

Glancing at each of the three men who had witnessed the show with him, Morgan gulped, took a deep breath, and finally stated, "Gentlemen, we have just been defeated by an Iraqi mouse."


	34. Forged In Brimstone

"He was met at the gate of Hades

By the Guardian of the Lost Souls,

The Keeper of the Unavenged

And He did say to him:

"Let ye not pass

Abaddon

Return to the world

From whence you came""

"Dark Avenger" - Manowar

12 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Specialist Morgan was taking a break from his usual work. He was not one to blatantly goof off. Instead, he did things that, at least in some way or another, might be useful. Today, in order to pass the time, he was reading some of the back briefs from previous patrols in the area. One he had found of particular, though somewhat darkly humorous, interest.

Three days ago, a patrol consisting of two tanks from FOB Saint Michael had been moving along a path with a berm twenty meters high to its right. Eight men had appeared atop the berm, three of them armed with rocket-propelled grenades (RPGs) and the rest with AK-47s. The commander of the lead tank, a twenty-eight year old second lieutenant, had - at least from Morgan's reading of the tale - panicked at the sight. The lieutenant had taken the commander's override joystick and traversed the tank's 120mm main gun around toward the eight men and fired. Not only that, but the round currently loaded in the main gun had been an M829A2 sabot.

The round in question, designed for anti-tank purposes mainly, was not explosive. In essence, it was a depleted uranium spear encased by three aluminum "petals" whose sole purpose was to ensure a proper fit in the gun tube. Soon after being fired, the petals separated, leaving only the fin-stabilized spear traveling at sixteen hundred meters per second. The problem facing the target in question, in this case, the men with the RPGs, was twofold. The 120mm main gun was never intended for direct fire against troops and the men were too close for the sabot to begin to separate. This meant the man directly in front of the main gun, when it fired, caught the full brunt of the sabot round's impact. Morgan thought for moment. Eight point one kilograms traveling at one point six kilometers per second.

 _Damn, poor Habib just ceased to exist._

That was essentially what the report said. One man was vaporized by the cannon's fire and the man on either side of him was allegedly killed or knocked unconscious - probably the former - by its concussion. The other five men, choosing sense over valor, dropped back behind the berm.

The crew of the lead tank, hearing what had just happened from the commander over the inter-vehicle radio, laughed along with him as he ordered the loading of another sabot round. He fired the cannon at the berm. The crew's laughter erupted as he reported that four men were now running full tilt toward a nearby river. Two small boats were located there and two men each dove into them. The tank's loader popped up out of his hatch and, tucking his fingers into the manual trigger of the M240C machine gun - the butterfly triggers were broken - he and the commander each swept their machine guns across the boats as the men tried to escape. Men and boats were reduced to bloody scraps in seconds. The patrol then continued on its mission, the crew of the lead tank still laughing to itself as it travelled.

Morgan shook his head, a smirk on his lips, as a parody of the commander's standard gunnery drill played in his head: "Gunner, sabot, RPG." The normal command, "Gunner, coax, troops," would tell the tank's gunner to prepare to engage troops in the open with the tank's primary machine gun. Instead, this version was telling him to prepare to fire a sabot round. Morgan chuckled and switched back to his project of the moment.

He was working on an operations and intelligence amalgamation database which could be used to ease the development of operations in the future. Rather the searching through the reams of digital documents currently being collected on the battalion's server, the staff need only access them here with a few clicks. In theory, it would work well, but it was taking a lot of work for the concept to become something that could be used easily by a bunch of "dumb tankers" as the staff liked to call themselves.

Morgan's challenge was to make the final product as intuitive as possible. Since he had no formal training in Microsoft Office software - and Microsoft Access in particular - it was a learn-as-he-went procedure. Sure, he had six years of experience with the software and could do significantly more than the average user, and that definitely helped out a great deal, but he was still making significant use of the help menus and the internet to figure out what to do as he developed it. He was also taking copious notes in case someone had to follow in his footsteps later on. One could never be too careful in the Triangle, even a fucking FOBbit.

As was usual for him when fully engaged in his work, he lost all sense of time. Two hours passed as if they were minutes. He barely noticed the flash of sunlight as the tent flap at the entrance was tossed to the side, so engrossed was he in his work. He did, however, how could he not? fully comprehend the thundering clap of a hand on his back as Captain Bunt made his presence known. Morgan turned his head around to face the officer, pulling out his earbuds as he did so. The blond captain's face was wide with a grin.

"Today's your day, buddy," Bunt announced. "You wanted it and now you've got it. Charlie One Three," he was referring to a tank on the FOB, "needs a loader. They're going out at thirteen hundred. Are you up for it?"

Morgan's jaw dropped. He raised his wrist and glanced at his watch. 11:17.

"Shit," he said. "There's not much time." Looking back at the officer, he replied, "Yes, sir. I can do it. I just need to get ready. There's a lot I need to do first."

"Alright," smiled the captain. "You go and grab a quick lunch. You can meet the crew out in the maintenance yard. They'll be getting their final check up completed when you get there. They're expecting you."

Finally unable to keep a grin off his own face, Morgan blurted, "Yes, sir." Standing and gathering his gear, he turned to leave. He paused and added, "Thank you, sir," before turning away.

"Be careful, Daniel."

Morgan stopped in mid-step. He slowly pivoted to face the captain. The concern on the man's face was clear. Morgan nodded once.

"Yes, sir," he said, almost in a whisper. "I'll be back tonight. Don't worry."

Bunt smiled again, though it was obviously forced. "You know I can't help that, Daniel. It's the Triangle. Everyone of one the staff has been out there…except you and the sergeant major. Not one of us has come back fully intact. We've all been battered and bloodied somehow. It's bad out there."

Forcing his own smile and a laugh, Morgan replied, "Don't jinx it, sir. There's no need to carry that kind of burden around. I'll be fine. I might even do something to make everyone proud."

"Oh, really?" asked Bunt. "Like what?"

"Like come back in one piece."

"Hah!" laughed Bunt with genuine mirth. "Now that would be a feat." Shooing him away, he said, "Now get out of here."

With a grin and a wave, Morgan turned and left. Bunt's own smile slowly faded as the young man vanished. Despite himself, worry overcame him. He turned his chair around to face his laptop and tried to force his mind to his work. Unsuccessfully.

The sound of boots at the far end of the tent drew Bunt's attention. He turned his eyes toward the noise. It was the Brit, Ashton, a look of curiosity on his features.

"How did he take it?" Ashton inquired.

"Enthusiastically, naturally," replied Bunt, turning again. "That was actually the most excited I've seen him in months."

"He has been asking for this chance for quite a while."

"Yeah, I know, sir. He'd really be pissed at us if he knew we set up the mission as just a presence patrol, just rolling around Mahmudiyah for an hour or two and coming back in, but I don't want him getting hurt."

"You have confidence in his abilities, don't you? You've seen him on the ranges, in combatives, and other combat skills, right?"

"Oh, yeah, he's good at all of that, but he's not an infantryman or a tanker, he's still a button pusher. I've met his mom. I said I'd take care of him. I mean to keep that promise. I'm not putting him in any danger if I can help it."

Ashton grinned, a slight chuckle rumbling in his throat. "He seems quite anxious to circumvent your efforts."

Bunt smiled and rolled his eyes. "Oh, does he. It's his loyalty to the scouts and mortars. He was the readiness NCO for the headquarters detachment in Douglasville for several years. That's where they were. He knows all of them. They're all his buddies and I can see the pain in his eyes every time they go out on missions. It's even worse when one of them comes back injured. He doesn't weep about it, but you can see the agony in his soul. Sometimes I think he would rather take all of that danger and hurt on himself rather than see it happen to another friend."

Ashton nodded, his eyes far away. "The sacrificial lamb," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Bunt gradually wilted upon hearing Ashton's comment. "Yeah, exactly like that. I wonder if that was his plan all along." A chill ran through the captain's body and he could not suppress a visible tremor.

xxxxxxxxxx

Specialist Morgan ate a light lunch. He decided he had little time for anything more. He had too much he needed to do before he set out on his patrol. He dumped his paper tray in the garbage bin, grabbed four liter-and-a-half bottles of water, stowed them in his thigh cargo pockets, and went back to his tent.

Once there, he went to the latrine and then drained one of the bottles. The other three, he tossed onto the cot. Next, he topped off his Camelbak. Now for the real work. Unclipping his M16 from his armor, he placed it on his cot and removed his helmet and armor. Setting the protective equipment aside, he sat in his folding sports chair and, using his cot as a table, disassembled the rifle. He cleaned every component twice before reassembling it and giving the weapon a functions check. Satisfied, he placed it on the cot and turned to his armor.

There were only four magazines in the ammo pouches currently. Morgan reached for his duffle bag and dug inside. He pulled five more magazines from within. Including the one he had in the velcro pouch on the rifle's buttstock, he had a total of ten. He took boxes of 5.56mm ammunition from his rucksack and began loading the five empty magazines. Afterward, he unloaded the five loaded magazines, checked them for functionality, and reloaded them. Finally, he put four of the magazines into the pouches of his body armor and one in his cargo pocket. That one would go into his rifle just before he left. Also on the armored vest was an Austrian bayonet, a compass, and a small, battery-operated red-lensed light. His helmet, as always, had its white and red-lensed light affixed around it, as well. A green embroidered band, visible beneath the light, showed his name and blood type.

Morgan then prepared the other necessities of any trip to the field. He took his empty patrol pack, basically a small backpack, and placed the three water bottles inside along with a folded fleece jacket, a digital camera, his pipe, tobacco pouch, and lighter. He also added his goggles, gloves, and a brown neckerchief he would wear over his mouth and nose to keep out dust. Two crunchy granola bars went into his left thigh cargo pocket. Inside Morgan's right calf cargo pocket, as per battalion standard operating procedure, was a pre-made tourniquet; in his left, an Israeli emergency bandage.

Morgan checked his watch. He had thirty-eight minutes left. He had just enough time to put on his gear, walk to the tanks, and still be about thirty minutes early. He put on his equipment carefully, giving himself a pat down to check for anything he may have forgotten. Satisfied, he stepped out of the tent.

xxxxxxxxxx

Morgan decided to stop at the latrine one more time on his way. It was a fruitless endeavor, but he was glad he had tried, nonetheless. He arrived in the maintenance area ten minutes later. He found Sergeant Thomas Norris, the tank's gunner, already crawling about the top of the vehicle.

"Hello, Sergeant Norris," Morgan greeted Morgan, raising a hand.

"Ah, our new loader," smiled Norris, standing up to wave back. "Come on up. Let me show you around."

"Thank you," replied Morgan.

Climbing up swiftly, Morgan met Norris by the loader's hatch. Norris grinned at him.

"You're pretty quick. This isn't your first time on a tank, is it?"

"No, Sergeant. My first year in the Guard was as an armor crewman and, ever since, I've taken every opportunity I could to spend as much time on or in them as possible."

Norris nodded, his grin still present on his face. "Good. That means I won't be starting from scratch. Well," he said, gesturing to the hatch, "hop in and I'll reacquaint you with your responsibilities."

Norris spent the next twenty minutes showing Morgan the basics of loading the tank's main gun, operating the M240C machine gun, and operating the several SINCGARS radios installed inside. Morgan was familiar with all of these, of course, but let him go through it all anyway. He was glad he did so. Skills get rusty from lack of use and he didn't want to mess up anything when he needed to perform. Morgan glared at the 240. The butterfly triggers were broken off. He commented on this to the sergeant.

"Yeah, the gun still works, but you have to curl your finger under the mount and pull the trigger beneath it. It's a pain in the ass, but it's a workaround."

Morgan grinned up at Norris. "Gunner, sabot. RPG."

For a moment, Norris just stared at Morgan. Then his jaw dropped. Then he laughed. "Yep, that was our lieutenant. Good ol' Lieutenant Minnix. He grabbed the joystick and traversed the gun right around at those guys and let 'em have it."

Norris's smile grew. "Whoo! What a day that was. And Sergeant Mann, that crazy ex-Marine who was our loader that day, he went crazy on the 240 that day and tore their little wooden boat to shreds." Norris patted his chest lightly. "Hopefully, today will be a little quieter than that. Oh! I don't know if I could handle another whacked out day like that one."

"Life has a way of throwing strange things at you," commented Morgan.

"Don't I know it," chuckled Morgan. "Here comes Specialist Percy. He's our driver. Hop on down to the hull, would you?" Putting his hands to his mouth, Norris shouted, "Hey, Percy, grab two or three cases of water and toss them up to Morgan, would you?

"Sure thing, Sergeant," answered Micah Percy.

"When you get them, Morgan, hand them to me and I'll store them in the bustle rack." Morgan nodded as he knelt and took the first plastic-wrapped case of water from Percy. For safety, he placed one hand on the bustle rack, an exterior holding area for extra gear on the back of the tank's turret, and used it to help him stand, before lifting the case up to the sergeant. He then knelt to receive the next case.

Lieutenant Ethan Minnix arrived as they stowed the last case in the rack. The three crewman gathered on the ground around him for the mission brief. From across the maintenance area, four other crewmen, a sergeant first class, two sergeants, and a specialist, also approached. Minnix unfolded an enlarged map of Mahmudiyah and held it against the side of the tank for them to see.

"Okay, guys," he began, "here's the short version of what we'll be doing today. This is a presence patrol. Our mission is to be seen by the local populace, to ensure their sense of safety from the insurgency, and to gather any intelligence we see along the way. We will be departing from the main gate there." He indicated the gate ahead of them.

"We will proceed along this road here. Sergeant First Class Golden's tank will be our wingman and will follow behind us. We will travel through the city streets and then make a circuit of its perimeter before returning to the FOB. The route is on your maps." He pointed to each driver and to Sergeant First Class Golden. They all nodded.

"Rules of engagement," he continued. "No one," he looked directly at Morgan, "shoots unless fired upon or given my authorization." He scanned the crewmen. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the men chorused, nodding.

"Alright, that's the brief. Let's load up."

Morgan, Norris, and Minnix climbed up the tank's hull to the top hatches. Percy went forward to the driver's hatch. Dropping his feet onto the loader's seat, Morgan removed his Army Combat Helmet and donned the Combat Vehicle Crewman helmet which was connected to the intervehicle radio. Through it, he would be able to hear the crew's communication over the noise of the tank's engine. He placed the ACH inside his patrol pack.

His M16 hung from the carabiner on his right shoulder. Though it would not be his primary weapon, a backup was always a good idea. He unclipped the carabiner and connected it to a hole in the loader's hatch. He then fed the sling through the carabiner to prevent the weapon from sliding around. Testing his design, he found he could detach the weapon in quick order. Minnix was watching as he did this and nodded silently. Making sure the weapon was pointed away from himself and the lieutenant, Morgan removed the magazine from his cargo pocket, inserted it in the magazine well, and pulled back the charging handle. He then closed the dust cover and ensured the weapon was still on safe. Turning to the M240C, he twisted the cover release and deftly loaded it with chain-linked 7.62mm ammunition. Closing the cover, he pulled the charging cable to feed the first round into the chamber.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" asked Minnix from behind him.

Turning, Morgan nodded. "Yes, sir. This isn't my first time on a tank."

Minnix smirked and shook his head. "I'm impressed. Captain Bunt told me you were a newbie. Keep it up."

"Well, sir, if all we're doing is a presence patrol, here's hoping I've already done all I have to do except unload it when we get back."

Minnix nodded again pensively. "Good point." He listened to the reports from the other tank and from Percy and Norris. After a minute of silence, he murmured, "Roll out." He then switched to the other frequency and reported their departure to the TOC. Morgan put on his black gloves, raised his neckerchief over his mouth and nose, and lowered his tinted goggles. Taking careful hold of the M240 and placing his finger near the bottom trigger, he felt his insides involuntarily constrict.

xxxxxxxxxx

The tanks proceeded slower than expected. Lieutenant Minnix gave Morgan pointers on where to look for possible IEDs as they travelled. Morgan had a good idea already from having read so many mission reports but doing it in reality was entirely different. Everything was a possible hiding place for the damn things: that pile of trash over there, that dead dog, even the trees overhead. Morgan's chest tightened just from the strain of it all. He kept up his surveillance, though. Nothing suspicious was spotted during their trip throughout the streets of the city. Only the happy waves of the local people greeted them as they passed.

Morgan had one terrifying moment during the tour, however. As they passed one house, a small boy, perhaps six or seven, ran quickly through the doorway, pointing at them. The boy's right hand was in the classic "gun" formation. For a brief instant, Morgan thought the child actually held a weapon and began traversing his machine gun toward the small boy. Morgan's eyes finally focused on the boy's hand, however, and saw that it was empty. He relaxed only slightly. His next thought, though, was the child had learned that acted-out hostility from somewhere and the young soldier began to scan the windows of the boy's home for possible hostiles. Morgan saw nothing as the tank rolled passed. He breathed a sigh of relief as they continued down the street.

The two tanks began their circuit around the perimeter. Morgan took the opportunity to reach across to the bustle rack for another bottle of water. He had forsaken his own supply for those in the rack. Minnix was still amazed at the way Morgan had improvised a way to snag the case, drag it over to himself, and then shove it back to the rack. The lieutenant shook his head and grinned every time the specialist performed this feat. Each time Morgan emptied a bottle, he crushed it and dropped it into the open patrol pack at his feet inside the tank. He had gone through six of them in the last two hours but did not seem to be sweating at all.

"What's that?" asked Morgan, pointed ahead of the tank.

"Good eyes," commented Minnix. "I don't know." He squinted. "Driver, slow down." As they neared the location Morgan had indicated, though they were still one hundred meters away, he said, "Looks like a body dump."

"Shit," said Morgan.

"Yeah," confirmed Minnix. "Never good. Call it in. Chances are there's an IED here, too. Get EOD out here." Minnix glanced at his GPS and gave Morgan the grid coordinates of the site. Morgan nodded and reached down for the hand mic of the radio for the command net. "Driver, stop," ordered Minnix when they were alongside the bodies.

"Oh, shit!" muttered Minnix. " _La. La. Ghadir. Ghadir. Khatr._ (No. No. Leave. Leave. Danger.)"

Morgan looked forward to see why the lieutenant was shouting. Ahead of them, he saw a platoon of Iraqi Army infantry walking in two columns along the road. He scoffed at himself. He had been so preoccupied with looking at the bodies and the field beyond them he had neglected to look at the road.

The lieutenant's warning was in vain. The IA soldiers only continued to approach, their curiosity greater than their sense of self-preservation. They came up to the tank and diverted off the road to examine the bodies dumped near it. Some of the soldiers must have known some of the men for they started to wail loudly at the sight of them.

Morgan finally took a good look to his left. There were six bodies twenty-five meters away, placed around a series of bushes. It was clear even from that distance all the men had been horribly tortured either prior to their deaths or they had been mutilated afterward. One man's left arm had been removed at the shoulder. Another looked like a drill had been driven through his temple. Morgan recognized the insignia of an Iraqi policeman's uniform on one man and an Iraqi Army soldier on another. Instead of the bile he thought should be rising within him, Morgan felt only rage. He raised the microphone to his ear, his eyes scanning the area beyond the bodies as he did so.

"Roughrider Three, this is Charlie One Three Lima, come in, over," he began. He released the push-to-talk button. He heard a screeching noise.

"Damn it!" he cursed. "The radio's down." Dropping down inside the tank, his fingers flew to the radio's controls, fighting to get the green box to respond. He squeezed the button again. "Roughrider Three, this is Charlie One Three Lima, come in, over," he repeated, his voice calmer than he felt.

"This is Roughrider Three," he finally heard.

"This is Charlie One Three Lima." Morgan reported their current location. "We have six bodies dumped along the road at our current grid. We suspect an IED is located here, as well. Request EOD support, over."

"Roger, Charlie One Three Lima, copy body dump and suspected IED. EOD team en route. ETA fifteen minutes. Over."

"Roger, Roughrider Three. Copy fifteen minute ETA on EOD team. Standing by. Over."

"Roger. Roughrider Three out."

Morgan set the microphone back on its hook. Placing both hands on either side of the loader's hatch, he started to pull himself up again. His head rising above the loader's hatch opening when it happened. BOOM! Morgan felt a whoosh of hot air fly over him. His head swam and he felt his fingers slip from the hatch. Dropping back onto the loader's seat, he looked in astonishment over at Sergeant Norris. The sergeant glanced back at him and nodded. They were under attack.

Pursing his lips, Morgan put his hands on the hatch again and went up. Smoke was billowing from bushes around which the bodies had been placed. Below, Morgan saw two IA soldiers dragging two of their wounded brethren away from the site. Behind him, he heard Lieutenant Minnix curse and pull the charging handle of his fifty caliber machine gun. Morgan realized the man had not done so prior to their departure. The thought instantly vanished as he gripped the 240 and scanned for danger. He saw nothing.

To his rear, Minnix was firing the M2 machine gun at a mud hut furiously. But only briefly. After five rounds, the weapon jammed. The lieutenant cursed again and jerked the charging handle back. Morgan glanced back. He saw Minnix fire another burst at the hut. Two IA soldiers were also firing at the hut and maneuvering closer to it. The M2 jammed again. A shadow moved in the hut. Minnix slammed the charging handle forward again and fired a third burst. Morgan watched as the shadow was cut in half, a dark mist spraying behind it. The IA soldiers, seeing the rest of their platoon running away, chose to abandon the Americans, as well, and ran off.

Morgan turned back to face his sector of fire. He still saw nothing to his immediate front. A loud smacking sound in front of him made him flinch. The thick transparent gun shield around the 240 spiderwebbed. Morgan hunched down behind it. As he did, several more rifle rounds pinged off the side of the tank's hull. Morgan scanned the area for potential firing positions. He found the shooter easily. The muzzle flash of the man's AK-47 gave him away. He was in a mud hut one hundred meters away shooting through the small building's window.

Staying low, Morgan traversed the 240 to the right and triggered a burst from his machine gun. It was short, kicking up dirt twenty meters in front of the hut. Morgan thought he could hear the laughter of the insurgent as he fired a long burst in response. Raising the 240's barrel slightly, Morgan triggered another burst. Bullets slammed into the side of the hut next to the window, driving the shooter back. Both insurgent and American cursed. Morgan paused for three seconds and fired one more time. A line of bullets walked up from the bottom of the window into the opening and directly into the body of the shooter as he swung about to return fire at the American. Struck from navel to neck, the insurgent slumped to the ground.

Morgan stayed crouched behind his weapon for several more seconds, looking for a second shooter. When he was finally satisfied there was no one else, he rose slightly. He continued to look around him, searching for anything else to shoot. He again realized he did not feel the emotions he thought would be normal for this situation. There was no fear; only anger at those who had committed the atrocity before him. He let his vision scan farther out to the treeline three hundred meters distant. A flash of white caught his eye. He squinted and focused his gaze. Yes, there was a man, dressed in a traditional white _dishdasha_ \- or, as the Americans often called it, man dress - standing there. He was watching the American tanks. Just watching.

"I have an enemy observer in the treeline three hundred meters away," reported Morgan over the crew radio. "Request permission to fire."

Minix did not reply. Morgan repeated his transmission. Nothing. He said it a third time. Still no reply. Cursing, Morgan traversed his weapon toward the figure and stared at him. His finger wrapped around the trigger.

 _Show me something, you bastard. A weapon. A radio. An obscene gesture. Just give me a reason._

Thoughts of Flint Weathers flooded Morgan's mind. What if he was wrong? What if the man was just a stupid civilian watching two American tanks get blown up by an IED? With glacial slowness, Morgan removed his finger from the trigger.

 _Damn it!_

Morgan glared at the man in the _dishdasha_ for several long minutes, still waiting for any excuse at all to kill him. None came. Finally, Morgan blinked and the man was gone. He blinked again, looking around. Nothing. He had completely faded away. Morgan cursed again.

"EOD's here," said Minnix a minute later.

"Do they have the mortars with them?" asked Norris from inside the tank.

"Yeah, they do."

"Then let's make sure they're good to go and find a place with some shade and cool off for a bit. I'm burning up in here."

"What's your thermometer reading?" inquired Minnix. Only then did Morgan remember that Norris wore a small thermometer on the shoulder of his body armor.

"Seventy-four°C (one sixty-five°F)" replied Norris.

"Oh, shit," said Minnix. "One moment." He climbed out of the hatch and down to the ground. He trotted over to the EOD team and spoke with them for several minutes. When he returned, he had barely replaced his CVC helmet on his head when he said, "Driver, forward."

They drove for twenty minutes before they found a spot Minnix deemed suitable to rest. It was a pleasant looking grove of palms growing close enough together to provide a decent amount of shade yet there was still sufficient space for the tanks to pull easily into it. Specialist Percy stopped the tank upon Minnix's command and killed the engine. Morgan lifted his goggles and pulled down his neckerchief, finally breathing unimpeded air. He took a deep breath and leaned against his machine gun.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking back, he saw Lieutenant Minnix sitting behind him. Minnix pointed at his damaged gun shield. "That was a close one," he observed with a grin. Morgan nodded silently and sighed. "I saw you take out the guy with the AK. That was some good shooting. I'm going to tell Captain Bunt about it when we get back. I think he'll be as impressed as I was."

Morgan smirked. "Probably more," he stated. "It's a lot harder to fire this thing without the butterflies."

"Yeah," laughed Minnix. "It sure is. We need to get the damned thing fixed sometime soon."

Norris emerged from within the tank sans his CVC, drenched in sweat. He held an olive drab tool bag in one hand and his ACH in the other. Setting the bag down, he sat and donned the helmet. He smiled as he unzipped the bag and extracted a large wrench. "These suckers will rattle themselves apart if you let them," he commented, setting the wrench down to tighten a bolt.

Morgan smirked. In one sense, he was somewhat thankful he had not become a fully qualified armor crewman. He had always been all but clueless when it came to anything mechanical. Computers, databases, even firearms and ballistics, he understood, but put a wrench or a screwdriver in his hands and he was sure to end up hurting himself. He still felt the pull of combat arms, though. Now he had had a taste of its full strength…or had he? He thought about it. Even this, he decided, was likely just a sample of what it was really like for what he dubbed the "real soldier," but he had a better idea now. Yes, he still felt that pull. He wondered if there was some way he could be a real soldier and still, somehow, use his brain, not just his hands, at the same time. Absentmindedly, he unclipped his M16 from the loader's hatch and reattached it to his body armor.

"Do you have a headspace and timing gauge in your bag?" asked Minnix. "I didn't check the timing on the fifty cal before we rolled out and now it's jamming." Norris rolling his eyes dramatically. Minnix laughed. "I know. Just like a lieutenant. Do you have one?"

"No, sir. We'll have to be sure to take care of that before we go on our next mission."

"Well, it's as good as a dead gun, then," said Minnix.

"Hey, look over there," announced Percy, pointing off in the distance. "There's a whole mud hut village out there."

Minnix looked up. The village was about four hundred meters away. He leaned forward, reaching back into the tank, and sat back up with a pair of binoculars. Putting them to his eyes, he observed it for several seconds.

"Hmmm," he said. "Looks like it's abandoned to me. Seems like the huts are crumbling. I don't think we need to worry about it." Lowering the binoculars, he said, "Doesn't seem like there's anyone around here at all."

Norris laughed. "Try again, Lieutenant." He pointed toward Sergeant Golden's tank fifty meters behind them. The other three followed his finger. Three youths stood by the American tank, staring at it in wonder.

Minnix smiled. Standing, he said, "Well, let's go greet our visitors."

The three boys were roughly fifteen, ten, and eight years old, respectively. The older two were dressed in ragged slacks and t-shirts. The youngest wore a dirty white _dishdasha._ They were all barefoot. Minnix approached them ahead of the others, greeting them with a wave, and speaking in slow Arabic. The oldest boy responded with a smile and gestured to himself and the other two. Minnix turned to the others.

"This," he said, pointing with a knife hand at the oldest boy, "is Omar. And this is his brother, Muhammed and the youngest boy is his cousin, Yassir. They saw us drive up and wanted to come look at the tanks."

Omar spoke again, his voice soft and plaintive. Minnix grinned and nodded.

"He asked if they could sit on the tank."

Morgan had a thought. "Let's add to that, sir. Iraqis love photographs. I've got a camera in my bag. I'll be right back."

Minnix chuckled and explained Morgan's offer to the boys. They chattered excitedly to each other. Yassir jumped up and down energetically and bounded after Morgan. Laughing again, Minnix called out, "You've got a shadow, Morgan."

Glancing back, Morgan saw his tiny follower and smiled at him. He slowed and waited for the child to catch up. He left the boy on the ground as he climbed up onto the tank to reclaim his bag. Reappearing at its top, he aimed the camera down at the small child. Yassir beamed up at him. Morgan clicked the camera. Placing the strap around his neck, he then climbed back to the ground. He paused to show the new photo to Yassir. The boy smiled broadly at the sight of himself on the little screen and nodded.

Commenting on the child's smile, Morgan utilized some of the little Arabic he knew and said, " _Wld jamil (_ Beautiful boy) _."_

" _Shukraan (_ Thank you)," replied Yassir, laughing innocently as they turned to walk back to the other soldiers. He took Morgan's hand as they strolled.

"Looks like you've made a friend, Morgan," quipped Norris as they approached.

"Kids and dogs," said Morgan with slight shrug. "I seem to have a way with both."

The soldiers helped each of the boys in turn onto the tank and Morgan took a picture of each. Then all three of them were placed there and another photo was taken. They assisted the boys down again. Morgan reached up to help Omar down. He was amazed at how light the teenager was. He then showed the boys the pictures he had taken of them. They insisted on more pictures, this time with the soldiers. This started a roundabout session with each of the crewman with a different assortment of the children, each time with a pause to review the new picture. Every time, the boys were aglow at the sight of the photos.

xxxxxxxxxx

Thaaqib el-Salehi frowned. "I think it's madness, Hakim. There are two American tanks there. To attack them is suicide."

"You lack faith, Thaaquib," retorted Al-Ghamdi. "They are playing with children and paying no attention at all to their own security. Now is the perfect time to attack."

"But you saw how they noticed our position when they first pulled into the grove?"

"And they discounted us just as quickly. Allah hid our presence from their eyes. He will also mask our approach as we near them. We have been dormant too long. It is time we strike, even if it is at a mere detachment such as this."

El-Salehi relented with a smile. Slowly shaking his head, he said, "Very well, Hakim. I will ready the men."

xxxxxxxxxx

The antics with the boys had settled into more civilized behavior. Lieutenant Minnix had invited Omar and Muhammed inside Sergeant Golden's tank for a quick, though cramped, tour. Meanwhile, Specialist Percy had borrowed Morgan's camera and he and Golden's crew were entertaining themselves taking "Charlie's Angels-type" pictures with it. Yassir had decided to demonstrate his tree climbing skills to Morgan during all of this. Morgan stood on the ground and watched the small boy climb the palm nearest his own tank. Despite his concerns for the child's safety, he smiled nonetheless.

" _Anzur 'iily_ (Look at me) _,_ " called Yassir from fifteen meters above the tank, looking down to make sure Morgan's attention was firmly affixed on him. His speech was distorted but understandable. He had pulled his _dishdasha_ up above his knees and was gripping a mouthful of cloth in his teeth as he climbed.

" _Hasan_ (Good)," cheered Morgan, clapping. Silently, he hoped Yassir would come down now. He thought he had gone far enough.

Yassir must have decided the same. He began to slowly descend the tree. When he was five meters from the ground, Morgan reached up for him.

" _La, la_ (No, no,)" said the boy, shaking his head as he continued down. Morgan stepped away. Yassir climbed down a little more and then jumped, landing on his bare feet and turning to face the soldier with a confident grin.

" _Naraa?_ (See?)" Yassir asked, beaming.

" _Jayid jidanaan_ (Very good,)" Morgan replied with his own smile. He patted the boy lightly on the head. Yassir smiled brightly and leaped up at the soldier, his arms upraised. Morgan caught him under the armpits and lifted the giggling child up until their faces were level. He was surprisingly light. Yassir leaned forward and linked his fingers behind Morgan's neck.

" _'Ashab, (Friends,)"_ he whispered softly. He continued to smile. His expression was questioning, however. " _Tafahm?_ (Understand?)"

" _Na-am,_ (Yes)" replied Morgan. "' _Ashab."_ He repeated the word in English.

"Fu-ren-dis," attempted Yassir, his dirty face contorting with the unfamiliar word.

" _Jayid jidanaan."_ Supporting the boy's slight weight in one arm, Morgan tapped the child's nose with the tip of his finger, eliciting another grin. His fingers then slid along Yassir's ribs, tickling lightly, drawing out more laughter. Yassir squirmed and drew closer to Morgan, settling into the soldier's shoulder.

" _'Ant latif_ (You are nice,)" he murmured contentedly, adjusting his position so he could more easily be held at one side.

"Still making friends with the locals, I see, Morgan?"

Morgan glanced to his right to see Sergeant Norris nonchalantly approaching, a smirk on his face. He smiled.

"It's easy with this little guy. He's like a puppy. Just show him some attention and he snuggles up right next to you."

Norris laughed. "My son is like that, too. He's only five, but he acts very much like that with grownups."

Norris stood by the tank, using its profile for shade. He patted the boy's back gently. Yassir turned and smiled at him.

"Percy and the others still playing with the camera?" Morgan asked".

Norris nodded. "Yeah. You'll have a lot of silly stuff to delete when we get back."

Morgan shrugged. "Or a lot of blackmail material for when we get back home."

Norris guffawed. "That's even better. I like that."

Chuckling to himself, Morgan's gaze swept to his left over the front slope of the tank. His cheerful expression darkened in an instant.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, dropping to a knee. "Get down."

"What is it?" asked Norris, following suit.

"AIF," Morgan answered. "Fifteen or twenty of them. About two hundred meters out. I don't know if they saw me or not." Turning to Yassir, he whispered, " _Khatar (Danger)._ Shhh." Yassir nodded and remained silent. He handed the boy to Norris.

"Take him back to the other tank," Morgan said. "You're concealed by this tank. "I'll cover you. Get someone on that 240 back there and get someone up here some I can get up to this one."

Norris tucked the small child under his chin and rose into a crouch. Yassir curled into a tight ball in his arms. With a silent nod to Morgan, he turned and ran back in the direction of Golden's tank.

Placing his hand on the pistol grip of his M16, Morgan took a deep breath. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest. Shouting, "Contact front!" he stood and placed the barrel of his rifle across the front slope of the tank, flipping the safety to single fire with his thumb. He pulled the buttstock into his shoulder and brought the rear sight aperture to his eye. The front sight post lined up with a moving man one hundred eighty meters away. Morgan adjusted his aim slightly in front of the man, held his breath, and squeezed the trigger. The man continued to run. Morgan took aim again, but then the man fell face first into the dirt.

The other insurgents exploded into chaotic response. They ran and fired their weapons haphazardly. Morgan's fire was still aimed and careful. After three more shots, he managed to bring down a second man. This only enraged the oncoming insurgents all the more and their return fire, though inaccurate, increased in its volume.

Morgan was feeling the strain and he began to shoot faster, as well. Rather than the more restrained, aimed fire of his first shots, he simply looked over the front sight post before firing. This method was not as precise as before, but still much more accurate than that of his enemies. Called reflexive fire, the technique allowed a soldier to lay down consistent fire in a short amount of time at relatively close ranges. It was not designed for the distances at which the insurgents currently stood, though, so most of Morgan's rounds did not find flesh. Only one more man fell before he had to drop behind the cover of the tank to reload.

Morgan's found his breathing harder to control as he fed a second magazine into his rifle. He took a deep breath as he stood again, risking a glance back at the far tank. The crew and Sergeant First Class Golden were moving about, but had not managed to coordinate their response effectively yet. Sergeant Norris and Yassir, at least, had reached safety. Specialist Percy and Lieutenant Minnix were sprinting toward Morgan, their weapons held ready in their hands.

Morgan's eyes widened in horror as he leveled his rifle across the tank again. The insurgents were within one hundred meters now. He fired rapidly, dropping two of them. Minnix came up alongside him, firing as he did. At the rear of the tank, Percy was triggering his M4 as fast as he could.

"I'm going for the 240," shouted Morgan over the cacophony of weapons fire.

"Go!" acknowledged Minnix, firing his .45 pistol. Vaguely, Morgan wondered where the lieutenant had acquired that weapon instead of the standard 9mm Beretta M9. The thought vanished immediately as he began climbing up the side of the tank. Reaching for a handhold on the tank's turret, he felt a slamming sensation in his chest. He was punched backward and was briefly airborne. He landed on the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs.

"Are you alright?" asked a voice.

It was Norris, kneeling at his side, concern on his face.

"Yeah, just got the wind knocked out of me." Morgan patted the body armor he wore, indicating the ballistic plate in the front. The tips of his fingers felt the entry point of the bullet that had struck him.

A cry of pain drew their attention. Looking forward, they both saw Lieutenant Minnix slump to a knee, clutching his left shoulder. In his right hand, he held his .45, its slide locked back on an empty chamber. Norris rose higher in his kneeling position, bringing his M4 to his own shoulder, and fired at the insurgents bearing down on the lieutenant.

"I'll cover him," Norris yelled. "Get to that 240."

"On it," shouted Morgan, slowly rising. His lungs burning, Morgan staggered back toward the tank. He approached more toward its center this time, using as much of its bulk as cover and concealment as possible. "Going up," he announced as he started his climb.

Morgan paused just beneath the loader's hatch. He would be the most exposed when he stood to enter the hatch. "At the hatch," he called down to the others.

"Go!" he heard Norris shout, followed by an increase in rifle fire.

Morgan gripped his own rifle, debating whether to use it while trying to gain control of the machine gun. A mental shake of the head. Every second he remained exposed to enemy fire was a second he could be taken down. He unclipped the M16 from his armor and slid it along the top of the turret next to the hatch. With a breath, jumped up.

He reached the top of the turret easily. He sat by the hatch and swung his legs inside, lowering himself into the tank. A chill ran through him as he turned to the 240. He currently had his back to the approaching insurgents. Punctuating that thought, an AK round punched into the ballistic plate in his back, throwing his against the machine gun. Cursing, he stood up straight again. Placing his hands on the M240C, he traversed the weapon around to face the threat. Crouching behind the gun shield, he curled his finger around the bottom trigger and scanned for targets.

The bulk of the insurgents were still a good fifty meters out. The angle was such that the turret of the tank and the fifty caliber machine gun next to him did not hinder his aim. Morgan squeezed the trigger, walking a stream of bullets into two running men, cutting their legs out from under them, and then bringing the stream back across their writhing bodies once more. A second leading burst caught a man in the torso and sent him flopping to the ground.

The 240's gun shield shuddered under the impact of multiple rifle rounds. Morgan traversed the gun slowly, suppressing a shudder as he realized the downside of manning such a weapon. Everyone wants to kill its operator. He was now under fire by no fewer than five insurgents, all standing in place and firing either from the hip or the shoulder. Three of the men were in a cluster, screaming curses at him as they unloaded at him on full auto. Morgan walked a line of fire across them at chest level, dropping them all. The other two ceased their fire and ran to the right. Specialist Percy's M4 brought one of them down. The panicked man fired in that direction, pausing long enough for Morgan to catch him in the side with an aimed burst.

Firing behind him drew Morgan's attention. Glancing back, he cursed vehemently. Sergeant Golden and his crew were engaging a second group of insurgents from their tank. Golden was firing his fifty caliber while his loader was putting out burst after burst with his own 240. His driver was standing at the front slope, shooting with his M4. Leaning against the tracks of Golden's tank, Morgan saw Golden's gunner applying a field bandage to a bleeding leg.

"They're trying to flank us," Morgan called down to Norris.

"Got it," acknowledged Norris, still shooting.

Morgan wasn't quite sure why he traversed his 240 to the left. If asked, he would have said only that he sensed danger. Bringing the weapon around, he found himself facing an insurgent, his face concealed by a balaclava, twenty meters away…and practically staring down the barrel of an AK-47. With a gasp, Morgan squeezed the trigger. The AK's barrel flashed. The 240's gun shield spiderwebbed again. Morgan's head snapped back. Thrown against the back of the loader's hatch, he slumped. Falling forward, his head collided with the rear receiver of the M240, sliding along the broken butterfly triggers. He seized the machine gun frantically, preventing himself from falling into the tank only at the last second.

Groaning and shaking his head, his vision starred, Morgan ran a hand over his helmet. He felt a definite tear in the camouflage fabric covering it and a crease at its top. A hit. He pulled himself to shaky feet and gazed out over the barrel of his 240. The man with the AK lay on his back, arms outstretched. Morgan sighed with relief.

Bullets pinged against the side of the turret near Morgan, reminding him the fight was not over. To his amazement, they were behind him. Cursing again, he swept his eyes over the area in front of him. Seeing no targets there, he seized the 240 and pulled it around on its track to the rear.

 _What the hell happened to Golden?_ he thought as the traversed the machine gun.

The horrible answer was revealed to him as he faced the inside of the perimeter. Golden's driver and gunner lay on the ground, both wounded or dead. Golden and his loader were nowhere to be seen. Whether dead or wounded, Morgan could not tell. All he saw were the four insurgents bearing down on them from below.

"AIF behind us," Morgan shouted to Norris as he triggered his 240 at the lead man.

The first fell instantly. Another dropped from Norris's fire as the remaining two ran in separate directions, each responding on full automatic. The man going to the right was in Norris's direction. Morgan ignored him and traversed to the left. The insurgent had reached the cover of a palm tree. Morgan chose a side of the tree and waited. The insurgent popped around the other side and fired a burst. It went wide. Morgan did not move. He still waited. A moment later, the man came around the other side, his rifle at his shoulder. Morgan fired. Five rounds slammed into the man's chest, dropping him instantly.

Morgan swung to the right to check on Norris. The insurgent he had left for the sergeant was on the ground, hurt but not out of the fight. He was crawling toward his weapon. Morgan wondered momentarily why Norris did not finish him off before walking a line of bullets across the man's head. Deathly silence hung over the battlefield.

Morgan looked about, his eyes scanning for more hostiles. Nothing moved. Morgan didn't like what he knew he had to do next. His breathing still rapid, he picked up his M16 and climbed with care from the loader's hatch.

"Coming down," he called. He heard only a groan in response. Morgan face tensed in concern. Glancing around the tank cautiously, he saw no other insurgents still on their feet. He climbed down to the ground.

Norris was leaning against the front skirt of the tank clutching a wound to his abdomen. Minnix lay next to him, dead or unconscious. Morgan's eyes went wide. He motioned to the man to stay still. Norris nodded. Morgan walked slowly around the tank, his M16 at his shoulder. There were no hostiles still standing. He proceeded to the four men in the center of the perimeter. All dead. He then went to Sergeant Golden's tank to check on things there.

From what he could see, counting the four in the center, fifteen men had tried to attack from this side. Sergeant Golden's fifty caliber and his loader's 240 had inflicted a great deal of damage on the group. Several of the bodies had been cut to pieces. Only one man of the eleven laying on the ground still lived. When he tried with defiance to raise his weapon in weak hands, Morgan fired a final round into his face. At last satisfied that the area was secure, Morgan went around to the far side of Golden's tank to check on his crew.

The driver, Specialist Shanklin, had wounds to both arms and his left leg at the calf. The calf looked bad. Morgan spoke to him softly and applied the man's Israeli bandage to the worst arm and the field tourniquet to the leg. He then checked on the gunner, Sergeant Otep. His leg wound was his only injury. The bandage he had applied earlier would do. With trepidation, Morgan climbed up the tank to check on Golden and the loader.

He found them crumpled inside, blood pooled on the vehicle's floor. A lot of it. Morgan went cold. As gently as he could, he pushed the loader aside so he could enter the tank. Looking at the two men, he saw blood spurting from a wound in Sergeant Golden's left arm. Golden was unconscious. Morgan reached down, banging his ACH on the tank's interior, and pulled the sergeant's tourniquet from his calf cargo pocket.

Racking his memory to recall the proper location to place the tourniquet, Morgan tried to tear the wrapping from it. His fingers were slick with Golden's blood. Cursing, he pulled the Austrian bayonet from the front of his body armor and slit the wrapper. He felt along the man's arm for the right spot and slid the tourniquet up to it. He fed the strap through the plastic loop and cinched it tight. Eyeing the wound, he watched the flow of blood slow to a stop. He then ran his hands over the sergeant's body. He found no other wounds.

Morgan turned slowly in the cramped space to face the loader, Sergeant Tang. To his relief, the man was breathing. Morgan saw no obvious sign of injury, though. In a moment, he realized what had happened. Embedded in the man's helmet was a 7.62mm rifle round. The concussion of the impact had knocked him out cold. Touching his own helmet, Morgan chuckled to himself. Morgan wiped his blood-splattered hands on his pants and then gave Tang a gentle pat down, just to be sure he had no other injuries. There were none. Maneuvering carefully passed Tang, he climbed out of the tank. Once back on the ground, he stopped next to Sergeant Otep.

"Do you think you can get yourself into the tank?" he asked.

Otep nodded slowly. "It would take me a minute or two, but I can do it, yeah."

"Good. I had to put a tourniquet on Sergeant Golden's arm. He'll need the pressure released every few minutes. Will you do that?"

"Sure," answered Otep.

"Okay. Thanks." Morgan pointed to the other tank. "I'm going to check on the other guys and then radio for help."

Otep nodded again. "Alright."

Morgan jogged back to his tank. He found Specialist Percy face down on the ground, groaning. When he rolled the young man over, he had to stifle a curse of his own. Besides an obvious wound to his right arm and shoulder, a round had struck him in the face, taking off a chunk of his cheek and his earlobe. Morgan could see a few exposed teeth through the hole in his face. The tracks of tears cut through the dirt and blood that caked his face.

Glancing at Norris and Minnix, Morgan said, "Give me a moment, okay? I'll be right back. I just have to check on the lieutenant and Sergeant Norris." Specialist Percy nodded silently though his expression said he did not want to be left alone. Morgan reached out and picked up Percy's M4. Handing it to him, he added, "Pull security for me, will you? We still don't know who else might be out there."

Standing, Morgan returned to Norris. He knelt by the sergeant, taking a closer look at the man's wound. Four rounds had hit him in total. Three had been stopped by the ballistic plates while the fourth had slipped underneath it. Looking into the man's pale face, Morgan asked, "How are you, Sergeant?"

Norris grinned weakly. "Hot. And thirsty."

Morgan shook his head. "Water is the worst thing I can give you right now. I'm sorry. Not with an abdominal wound."

Norris nodded in understanding as Morgan reached to open up his armor and unclipped his helmet. "Come on. Take off your IBA and lean back. You're going into shock." The sergeant followed his instructions without protest, letting Morgan use his armor to prop up his feet. Morgan then moved on to Lieutenant Minnix.

The young officer was in a crumpled heap, face down. Morgan pulled him over onto his back. He saw the expected shoulder wound and another bullet in the man's helmet. Further inspection showed an impact in his chest, but no other injuries. Sighing with relief that the man was only unconscious, Morgan slowly stood.

xxxxxxxxxx

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

180th Armor TOC

Ashton sat with Sergeant Major Wagner inside the small operations center of the 180th Armor Battalion. He had been observing the Americans' TOC procedures for the last several hours. For the most part, they were the same as those the British Army and his own NextGen team used. There were a few unique differences, of course, as each unit had its own standard operating procedures, and he had even made note of one technique he thought would improve operations within his own team. He smiled in satisfaction. Such learning was the purpose of joint operations.

"Roughrider Three, this is Charlie One Three Lima. Come in, over."

Ashton frowned slightly and glanced across at Sergeant Major Wagner. That was Specialist Morgan's voice. He looked at his watch. They were already long overdue to return from their mission.

Wagner picked up the microphone and replied, "This is Roughrider Three. Go ahead, Charlie One Three Lima, over."

"Roughrider Three," Morgan began, "our current grid is…" Ashton visualised the young man pausing to read a GPS or his notes from a map. He then read out a series of grid coordinates. "We have been engaged by a platoon-sized element of AIF. Area is currently secure. Nine-line follows. Break."

Ashton sat up straighter in his seat. A "nine-line" was the radio protocol for calling for medical assistance. Morgan's patrol had not only been engaged by a sizeable element of hostile forces but had suffered casualties, as well. Ashton listened to the transmission carefully. Seven. Seven of the eight men who had gone out on the mission were wounded and in need of some degree of medical attention.

"Roger, Charlie One Three Lima," answered Wagner. "What is your status? Are you one of the WIA?"

"Negative. I'm fine, but I am the only one left here, Roughrider Three. Break. I'm one guy with an M16 and a 240 and I don't know how long it will be before other AIF arrive. Please send QRF (Quick Reaction Force) and medical aid soon. Over."

"Roger, Charlie One Three Lima. Help is on the way now. Stay by the radio. Roughrider Three out."

Ashton stood. Pointing at the radio, he remarked, "He sounds surprisingly calm considering the situation."

Wagner smirked. "I'm sure he's quaking on the inside."

Ashton nodded, chuckling. "Who wouldn't be?" Picking up his rifle, he said, "I hope there is room in the QRF vehicles. I'd like to go along."

Wagner nodded. "Me, too."

Walking toward the exit, Ashton paused. "Come to think of it, I am sure Captain Bunt would want to accompany us, also. I'll go tell him."

Nodding again, Wagner turned to the TOC staff. "Tell the QRF to prepare another vehicle for us. We'll meet them at the gate in five minutes."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I hear vehicles approaching," Specialist Percy called out.

"Thank God," breathed Morgan softly. "Let's just hope they're ours," he said louder. Two tense minutes later, he relaxed as American HMMWVs came into view. He checked his watch. Twenty-eight long minutes had passed since he had radioed in to Roughrider Three. The longest twenty-eight minutes of his life. Morgan slumped against his M240 and sighed. Rising slowly, he waved to the approaching vehicles. Feeling older than his twenty-nine years, he began to climb out of the tank and down to the ground. He still gripped his M16 in his right hand.

He went straight to the medical vehicles, speaking quickly to the medics to inform them of the condition of the wounded men. He gave them directions to each man and they set out immediately to render aid. Turning to see the QRF had set up security around the perimeter, Morgan suddenly found himself with nothing to do. He visibly deflated, his head and shoulders sinking.

"You look a bit tired, young man," said a voice.

Morgan looked up, blinking to come back to reality. Brigadier David Ashton stood before him, grinning. Captain Bunt and Sergeant Major Wagner were walking up behind him. Returning the grin weakly, Morgan replied, "You could say that, sir. It's been an eventful day."

Turning to survey the battlefield and the numerous bodies spread out in front of Morgan's tank, Ashton remarked, "From the looks of things, I'd say that's putting it quite mildly."

"What happened here, Dan?" asked Bunt, coming to a stop next to Ashton.

Morgan motioned for the three men to follow him back to the tanks. He walked them through a brief version of the firefight, taking about two minutes to do so. He downplayed his own actions significantly.

"After the shooting stopped, I realized I was the only man still standing. I checked the perimeter to make sure there were no more attackers, looked after each man's wounds, and called the TOC. Percy and I have been pulling security and waiting since then."

"And what about this?" asked Ashton, reaching out to touch Morgan's tattered helmet cover.

Morgan shuddered visibly. "I had a very near miss from one of the guys lying out there. We fired at each other at the same time. I think I'd have been toast if not for the gun shield on the 240 and this helmet."

"Did you get him?" inquired Bunt.

"Yes, sir," replied Morgan with no trace of pride.

Nodding, Ashton turned to look up at the M240C machine gun mounted on Morgan's tank. He climbed up to the loader's hatch with ease and sat next to the weapon. After a moment, he motioned for Bunt and Wagner to join him. He indicated four links of discarded ammunition and the new box of bullets mounted there. The men also looked with interest at something else Morgan couldn't see from the ground.

"Show me, Morgan" said Ashton with obvious interest in his voice. "I'd like to see the man who shot your helmet."

"Why is that, sir?" asked Wagner.

"Curiosity, mostly," answered Ashton, pointing at two of the bodies on the ground near Morgan's tank. "That man is Thaaqib el-Salehi, a Syrian terrorist-for-hire. This other man is an Iranian mercenary. Let's see who some of the others are."

They dismounted and walked passed the tank out to the open ground beyond it. The man in the balaclava lay spreadeagled where he had fallen. Morgan stopped and regarded him.

"He looks smaller up close," he said.

Ashton chuckled. "They always do." He knelt by the body. "Now let's see who this mystery man is." He reached down and slid the balaclava off the man's face. Grinning, Ashton purred, "Well, hello to you, Hakim al-Ghamdi."

"Al-Ghamdi?" repeated Bunt. "Really?"

"There's no doubt," said Ashton, looking at the man's face. "That scar along his right cheek and the birthmark over his left eye are definitive. It's him."

Wagner's hand pounded into Morgan's back. "Good job, Dan. You just bagged yourself a high-value target on your first patrol."

"Yeah," replied Morgan, twisting his head from right to left. "And all it cost me was whiplash and a sore neck."

Ashton chuckled. "It cost you slightly more than that, young man."

Morgan looked at him with curiosity. Ashton tapped the right side of his own face. Morgan raised his fingers to his cheek. When he brought them away, a few flecks of red tarnished the brown dirt already staining them. Morgan's eyes widened with shock. He returned his hand to his face, rubbing lightly across it, searching for the site of the bleeding. He hissed and winced when fingertips reached the end of his right eyebrow.

"Have I been bleeding this whole time?" he asked in surprise.

"It's stopped now," said Ashton, "though it does look like you may have just broken the scab over your eye. The right side of your face and the buttstock of your rifle are covered with blood. I was even showing Captain Bunt and the sergeant major the bloodstains on the 240."

"Yeah, Dan," added Bunt, "It looks like you'll need to get a few stitches over that eye when we get back to the FOB. I'm amazed you didn't get blood in your eyes during the fight."

"Not at all," said Morgan. "I knew I hit my head on the 240 and I was a bit starry-eyed but, other than that, I never knew I was bleeding. I was more worried about the hit to my helmet."

Ashton was running his hands along Al-Ghamdi's body as the men talked. He reached inside every pocket. From one, he withdrew a small notebook. He flipped through it.

"Oh, this is lovely," he grinned.

"What is it?" asked Morgan.

"Everything. This is better than what you got from Abu Buckshot. This is his itenary, his plans to meet Farid, locations of the others in his army, everything."

Standing, Ashton added, "We need to search the other bodies, too, just in case there is other information to add to this." Holding up the notebook, he said, "This alone is a boon, but let's not miss anything. And finally, let's get this young man back to the FOB before his passes out from exhaustion."

xxxxxxxxxx

12 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Specialist Morgan did not get a chance to rest upon his return to the FOB. He was shuffled off immediately to the staff tent where he was quickly examined by a medic and, except for a mild case of whiplash to his neck and three quick stitches over his eye, determined to be no worse for wear. Sergeant Aaron Templar took his weapon and sat next to him at the meeting table cleaning it while Morgan ate a meal brought to him by Sergeant Strickman of the scout platoon; he sat on Morgan's other side. Morgan found he wasn't particularly hungry but picked at it anyway. Lieutenant Colonel Rey, Captain Barrett, Captain Bunt, Sergeant Major Wagner, and Brigadier Ashton joined him at the table. They had lots of questions.

"You'll be glad to hear, I'm sure, that all the other guys are now conscious and talking," said Bunt. "We also found four insurgents still alive among the bodies and took them prisoner. Brigadier Ashton says they're all low-level mercenary-types and doesn't expect us to get much out of them, but we'll try anyway."

"We'd like to hear what happened today, Daniel," stated Sergeant Major Wagner. "Tell us, in your own words, what went down after you left the gate."

Morgan ran a hand over his shaven head, his face reddening in embarrassment. He was not used to this kind of attention. Across the table, Captain Barrett poised a pen over a legal pad, ready to take notes.

"The patrol started out completely as expected, just a presence patrol with us rolling through town. The locals were smiling and waving as went drove by. There was nothing particularly out of the ordinary that I saw. We were driving slower than we had predicted, but that was mostly due to caution regarding possible IED emplacements. There were none, but we had to be careful."

Everyone nodded at this. They were completely familiar with the hazards of patrols in the Triangle.

"It wasn't until we started the circuit around the outskirts of Mahmudiyah that things started turning strange for us. We found the body dump very soon after starting that part of the patrol. It was an obvious lure and we expected there to be an IED somewhere in the area. That's why we called for EOD support as soon as we arrived."

Sergeant Major Wagner interrupted. "EOD said the IED had already been detonated when they arrived. Is that right?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major. A platoon of Iraqi infantry arrived on site soon after we pulled up and began to gather around the bodies. The trigger man must have seen that as a prime opportunity and detonated the IED. I was inside the tank talking to the TOC at the time the IED went off but when I came back out, I saw the IA (Iraqi Army) troops pulling away two wounded soldiers. Lieutenant Minnix engaged who I presume to be the trigger man hiding in a mud hut across the street with his fifty caliber and took him down."

"Did anything else happen, Dan?" asked Bunt.

"Yes, sir. I took fire from a man with an AK from a hut on my side of the street and had to return fire. After that, I scanned the area for additional threats and pulled security."

"Did you see anything?" From Barrett this time.

"I saw a man in the treeline about three hundred meters away. I only noticed him because his white _disdhasha_ was such a contrast to the color of the trees. He was just standing there watching us. I reported this to Lieutenant Minnix and requested permission to engage him, but he did not reply."

"I see that expression on your face, Dan," said Bunt. "Did you fire anyway?"

"I wanted to, sir. After all the reports we've seen of observers at our firefights, it just made sense to take him out. Lieutenant Minnix had given me an order not to fire, however, unless I was under an immediate threat or had his permission. I also remembered what had happened to Sergeant Weathers. What if I was wrong? So I didn't fire. I was looking for every excuse to do so, though. A weapon, a radio, anything, but he just stood there."

"And after that?" prodded Rey gently.

"After that, we turned the site over to EOD and the mortar platoon. We decided we needed to find a shady place to rest. The temperature inside the tank was incredibly hot and we need to let Sergeant Norris and the other gunner rest for a while. We were drained, as well, so we welcomed the break.

"We found the grove about twenty minutes later and pulled in. It wasn't long before we were approached by three local national children who wanted to look at the tanks. Of course, we let them. I also pulled out my camera and we started taking pictures of them. They really enjoyed that."

Again, the men around the table nodded, grinning. They also had experience with the Iraqi childrens' love of cameras.

"Is that how thirty-two AIF were able to get the drop on you, Dan?" asked Rey.

Running his hand over his scalp again, Morgan nodded. "Yes, sir. That is completely our fault. We were all so involved in entertaining the kids that we neglected security. I just happened to look in that direction while they were still some distance away. It was pure chance."

"Well," said Sergeant Major Wagner. "It still gave you a chance to respond and keep most of them out of your perimeter. It could have been a massacre otherwise."

Rubbing his sore neck, Morgan replied, "It sure seemed like we were on the verge of one the whole time."

Captain Bunt leaned forward, curling his fingers on the table. "From what one of the medics told me, Sergeant Norris says you broke the back of the attack all by yourself once you got your hands on that 240. Killed a dozen or so of the AIF yourself. Is that so?"

"I don't know about that, sir," said Morgan with a shrug. "I wasn't counting and I was just reacting to threats as I saw them. Colonel Rey just said there were thirty-two of them so I certainly can't take credit for breaking their backs. Everyone had a hand in it. For example, Sergeant Golden and Sergeant Tang took down most of the flanking force all by themselves. And I never would have made it to the 240 without the covering fire from Sergeant Norris and Specialist Percy."

"I admire your modesty, Daniel," admitted Ashton. "It's also perfectly fine to realize your own contribution to the outcome of the fight. From walking the grounds myself, I could tell almost half of those killed there died from your machine gun. You also said in your description earlier today that you shot a few with your M16. To use Captain Bunt's words, saying you broke their backs is a legitimate description of today's events."

"Yes, sir," said Morgan softly, blushing.

"Not only that," Ashton continued, "but we also identified Hakim al-Ghamdi and several other prominent terrorists among the dead and captured many useful documents which will aid us in tracking down Aadam el-Farid, our true target. This was a good day."

"An expensive day, though, sir," reminded Morgan.

"Yes, indeed," agreed Ashton in a low tone.

"Ah, yes, on that note," injected Bunt. "One of the medics on the ground told me before we left he was confident Sergeant Golden's arm could be saved. He said the tourniquet and Sergeant Otep's tending of it was perfect."

Morgan grinned at this. "I'm glad, sir. I was worried about that."

Colonel Rey slapped the table with the palm of his hand. "Alright, gentlemen, I think we've done enough here. I'm sure the young specialist would like to get some rest. He has earned it. After that, we can go get this Aadam el-Farid and his buddies."

Ashton lifted a finger. "If I may interject, Colonel?" Rey looked at him inquisitively. "First of all, we shouldn't take Farid lightly. He is not to be underestimated. Also, in light of today's events, I would like to invite Specialist Morgan, and indeed all of you present here, to our tents for a small celebration. Surely, it will be simple, only flavored water and cigars - for those who care to partake - but we would like to recognize Specialist Morgan in our own way for his contribution to our mission here. If you are willing to allow us, that is, Colonel?"

Rey nodded. "I believe that is more a question for Specialist Morgan, Brigadier." Rey's eyes flickered toward Morgan. "What do you think, Morgan?"

Setting his plastic fork on his paper tray, Morgan nodded and smiled. "I would be honored, sir."

xxxxxxxxxx

Flavored water though it may have been, the NextGen men treated the beverages like it was the finest liquor available. Being British and exempt from the rules preventing the consumption of alcohol in the Middle East, they could have had it in their possession with ease. Out of respect for their American hosts, however, they had chosen to refrain. This did nothing to dampen the joviality of the small gathering, however. Ashton had not yet told the men why they had gathered in celebration; they apparently needed little reason as music played loudly over a CD player and they danced about with abandon.

Ashton passed around a box of fine cigars he'd special ordered from England. Rey, Barrett, Templar, Dublin, and Morgan had happily accepted the offer. They puffed merrily on the tobacco, expelling thick clouds of smoke into the air.

"From where do you hail, Mister Morgan?" inquired Ashton, taking a long pull on his cigar.

"A little blink-and-miss-it town in north Georgia, sir, called Ringgold," answered Morgan. "It's only claim to fame is a small Civil War monument and a once popular wedding chapel. Other than that, it's not much. It used to be a small country town. Over the years, it has almost become more of a suburb of the neighboring city, Chattanooga, Tennessee.

"I live in a tiny house on the outskirts of the town just three kilometers from the Tennessee line. No one in college believed me when I said I said I used to run to Tennessee until I told them where I lived. Most of the houses are small, poor affairs and there are several farmhouses and dairy farms. A person could make a decent income and stretch it very far in that town.

"There is something very interesting there, though. There's one large mansion right down the road from my house. It's a huge white place with large columns out front and a beautiful gate a hundred meters or so further to the front. I used to sneak onto the property at night when I was a kid and look around the place. It was very nice looking. I liked to think I was getting away with it all but I was pretty sure there were cameras watching me."

Ashton grinned and nodded, suppressing a powerful urge to tell the young man that mansion was actually his own house. He had not been there in several years, but had been pondering returning to the location for some time. Instead, he responded differently.

"That sounds like a nice little town. I will have to be sure to come over and visit it sometime soon."

 _And, yes, I did get reports of a youngster prowling around the grounds at night on a fairly regularly basis. He never bothered anything, only crept about and observed things, sometimes sat on the gazebo for a while or swam brazenly in the pond then left quietly. So that was you. What a brave little scamp you were, even then, to venture into such a place alone._

"When you get back from this war, Morgan," he offered, "ring me up and I will bring you over to England for a visit. You can have free access to my humidor and my bar. Well, you may have to push Sergeant Major Dublin out of the way to get to the bar." Ashton winked at Dublin as he said this.

Dublin assumed the role of the besotted Irishman as he responded. "There he goes, the high-rolling rich man looking down his nose as us downtrodden Irishmen and our plight. So what if we happen to enjoy the occasional drink…or twelve, now and then?"

The cigar-smoking soldiers chuckled at Dublin's act, taking another puff as they did so. A TOC staffer interrupted Captain Barrett only briefly to hand him a sheaf of reports. He flipped through them quickly before handing them to Colonel Rey. Ashton looked over the man's shoulder and received them thankfully when the armor officer was finished with them. He read rapidly and looked into Rey's eyes in shock.

"What a surprise," he said.

Rey nodded. Ashton turned to Dublin. Without a word between them, Dublin ran off into the NextGen tent. Ashton took a step forward to address his men.

"Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?" he asked in a commanding voice. Within seconds, the whooping of the men settled down and the music ceased. The NextGen men gathered around their commander. Ashton motioned for the 180th Armor men to approach him, as well.

"I would like to quickly explain why we are gathered in celebration this evening. We are here because of an event that occurred earlier today and one young man's contribution to it. A few hours ago, two American tanks, their crews dismounted and without security, were engaged by thirty-two members of the very group we are seeking. They were led by Hakim al-Ghamdi, a man of significance with many of the more powerful tribes in Iraq."

A light rumbling began within the group of NextGen men at this.

"One man, Specialist Daniel Morgan, a member of the operations staff who was acting as a temporary loader for one of the tanks, happened to notice the approach of Al-Ghamdi's forces and alerted the other Americans. He then engaged Al-Ghamdi's men alone until the other Americans were able to respond. As the fight progressed and grew increasingly worse for the Americans, Morgan gained control of an M240 machine gun on one of the tanks and began to return fire. In the process, he was struck twice by enemy fire but continued to fight back.

"While fighting the enemy forces, Morgan personally came under fire by Al-Ghamdi himself and was struck in the head. He was only saved by his Kevlar helmet. He and Al-Ghamdi, as it turned out, fired at the same time, and Al-Ghamdi was killed."

The men's excitement grew as the narrative continued.

"Morgan realized his position was being flanked by a second group of Al-Ghamdi's men and turned his machine gun around to face inside the perimeter. He then saw that the second tank's position had been overrun and insurgents were inside the perimeter. Opening fire on the enemy approaching him, he personally killed the terrorist-for-hire, Thaaqib el-Salehi. He then killed both of the remaining hostiles and, being the only man still standing, dismounted the tank and secured the entire perimeter himself. He even administered first aid to all of his wounded brethren and then radioed for assistance, manning the 240 and providing security until help arrived."

Dublin walked up next to Ashton. He placed a small object in Ashton's left hand as the Minoan held up the sheaf of reports in his right. "According to the reports of the men with Specialist Morgan, he was personally responsible for killing sixteen of the attackers on the American position and for saving the life of a critically wounded noncommissioned officer. In addition to that, documents found on the bodies of several of the hostiles, including Al-Ghamdi, are very likely to lead us to Aadam el-Farid and the rest of his cohorts in Iraq.

"In this one day, in just a few hours, Specialist Morgan has done more to aid our joint cause than any of us have in the last several months. This young man, who has often stated he believes himself to be less than a real soldier, has demonstrated the true spirit of a soldier today. In fact, he has shown himself to be more than a soldier. He has dared to step beyond the limits of a mere soldier and prove to be something greater, at least in my eyes."

With this, Ashton handed the papers back to Colonel Rey. Under his breath, he said, "Would you mind holding this, as well?" He held out his now extinguished cigar.

"Certainly," replied Rey, taking the half-smoked stick from him.

Turning back to the crowd, Ashton held up the object in his left hand. It was a small crest, the symbol of NextGen. The SAS beret insignia was a winged dagger with a scroll beneath the handguard bearing the words, "WHO DARES WINS." NextGen's version of the pin lacked the scroll and the motto.

"We in NextGen call ourselves the Twenty-Fourth Regiment and live by the motto, "Who Dares Wins," even though it is unofficial for many of us, hence the difference in our crest. Today, I want to recognize a young man who has exemplified that motto by his actions. He has not only shown himself to be an example for "real soldiers" as he calls them, but SAS troopers, as well. Specialist Morgan is the embodiment of "Who Dares Wins" and, even though it is not an official award, I would like to present this crest to him now."

Ashton came to the position of attention. "Specialist Daniel Morgan, post." Behind him, he heard Morgan come to attention and begin to march. Two quick facing movements later and Morgan was facing Ashton. Morgan's eyes flicked quickly to Colonel Rey, asking permission to salute in a combat zone. Rey nodded. Morgan saluted crisply. Ashton returned it and Morgan dropped his salute.

Ashton undid the clasps on the pin and reached out to Morgan's left Mandarin collar. "Since this isn't an official award, I'll just place this here. You can wear it under here all the time, perfectly out of sight. Be proud of this, Morgan. Hundreds of men have tried to earn this pin and failed. I am proud to give this one to you now."

"Thank you, sir. I am honored."

Finished with pinning the crest to Morgan's uniform, Ashton saluted the specialist sharply, holding it until Morgan saluted back. He then extended his hand and they shook firmly. "About face," Ashton whispered. Morgan pivoted. "Gentlemen, may I present to you Specialist Daniel Morgan, the man of the evening."

The applause and cheering from all around was deafening.

xxxxxxxxxx

14 August 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

The day's lessons had ended and the family had gathered in the living room to relax. Each of the children wanted a lap as either a seat or a pillow so some of the older members, Asami, Alyssa, Paula, and the visiting Vivia, were pulling duty. Tristan was resting his head on Asami's thigh, a small grin on his face as her hand lightly ran up and down his chest. Paula, seated next to Asami, had Blake reclined against her, his eyes drooping. Marc and Johnny leaned happily on either side of Alyssa, her arms around each of them, on the couch opposite Asami. Next to Johnny, Tally sat contently in Vivia's lap as Vivia read aloud from _Peter Pan_.

None of them knew. Perhaps it was best not to know. Their ignorance gave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it. They sang and danced in their night-gowns. Such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows, little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them, from whom they would shrink in real fear. So uproariously gay was the dance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it! It was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the pillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never meet again. The stories they told, before it was time for Wendy's good-night story! Even Slightly tried to tell a story that night, but the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said gloomily:

"Yes, it is a dull beginning. I say, let us pretend that it is the end."

And then at last they all got into bed for Wendy's story, the story they loved best, the story Peter hated. Usually when she began to tell this story he left the room or put his hands over his ears; and possibly if he had done either of those things this time they might all still be on the island. But to-night he remained on his stool; and we shall see what happened.

The chapter over, Tally turned her head to face Vivia. "That was very good," the grinning girl said, "but let's save the rest for later."

"Okay," agreed Vivia, placing a bookmark in the paperback and closing the book. "What would you like to do now?"

Glancing at the clock on the wall to make sure it was not so late that her request might be denied, Tally smiled again. "Let's go swimming," she suggested brightly.

"Really?" asked Vivia. "That's what you want to do?"

"Sounds good to me," chirped Marc, next to them.

"Me, too," said Blake from across the room, sitting up and suddenly more awake.

Asami grinned at Vivia. "Looks to me like the vote is in, Viv."

Smirking, the Immortal woman sighed. "I guess so." Looking about, she said, "Alright, kids, go get your swimsuits on."

xxxxxxxxxx

Johnny and Tristan were the last to enter the pool room. They were chattering animatedly to each other about something or another when they arrived to a pool full of splashing children. Only briefly did they pause in their conversation as they silently debated whether to jump into the water themselves or lounge by the pool and keep talking. The decision was, at least momentarily, made for them.

"Wow!" exclaimed Alyssa. "Tristan, look at you, little guy. You're looking good."

All the women in the pool turned to observe Tristan as he stood by the pool's edge. The previous year's training had had a definite effect on his appearance. Gone was the skinny, practically skeletal boy who had arrived from the Savoy. The Tristan Dahl who they saw now had the sleek, well-defined swimmer's physique as the child Immortal standing next to him.

"Nice abs, Tristan," commented Paula. "You could do your laundry on those."

Tristan blushed. "Thanks, I think." His hands slowly moved to cover himself.

The women in the water giggled at his embarrassment. Vivia waved at him.

"Don't be shy about it, Tristan. Be proud. You worked hard to get where you are. You're gorgeous. Be happy about it."

Tristan grinned, still blushing. "It's all because of him," he said, throwing a light punch into Johnny's shoulder. "He's the one that pulls me out of bed every morning and pushes me so hard."

Smiling back at his friend, Jonny turned and pushed him back jovially. "I'm just the pest that badgers you. You're the one actually doing all the work."

"Uh, oh," said Asami. "The boys are at it now." The women laughed further as the pushing continued until both boys ended up toppling into the water.


	35. Between the Eyes

"When you walk away  
Nothing more to say  
See the lightning in your eyes  
See 'em running for their lives"

"Living In Chaos" - The Offspring

15 August 2005  
Mahmudiyah, Iraq

Aadam el-Farid looked at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was not like Nassaar al-Kamel to be late. The man should have arrived at the marketplace for their meeting by now. Looking out into the crowd of shoppers, Farid caught the eyes of his scattered security detail. They all shook their heads. Nothing. Farid cursed.

Sitting at the little table where he had planned to speak with Kamel, Farid sipped his small cup of chai tea. The beverage was nothing like anything the Americans had. What they called chai was but a laughable shadow of the strong tea in this cup. Their version was a horrid coffee mixture of some sort. This was a powerful tea requiring a substantial amount of sugar. It was truly heavenly and best served piping hot. He could at least enjoy his cup while he thought.

Farid watched a boy kick a football around the street as he nursed his chai. He'd noticed an increase in the number of footballs in children's hands in the last month. That and other toys. He'd discounted it at first. Now, he pondered the fact with renewed meaning.

The American commander was Mexican, he had learned, born in a poor town similar to Mahmudiyah before his family emigrated to the United States when he was seven. Memories of such a life would surely have stuck with him. As well as memories of the national game. Farid grinned to himself. He had to give credit to the American. Had he somehow managed to capture Kamel for the cost of a mere football? If so, what did they know about today's meeting? About him? About Al-Ghamdi and his recruiting efforts?

Those thoughts gave Farid pause. He did not react visibly, only sipped his tea again while his eyes scanned the marketplace. He had not heard from Hakim al-Ghamdi for several days, but that was not unusual. He did not expect contact from the man for another week. The oddity was the absence of Kamel.

Leaning back in his chair with the appearance of complete casualness, Farid's eyes traversed across the marketplace's perimeter. He saw no indication of the presence of the Americans. That did not mean, he knew, they were not there. If they were, they would wait until he and his men were away from the marketplace and its numerous civilians before they attempted to apprehend them.

Finishing his chai, Farid stood and placed a five-dinar note under the cup. He nodded his thanks to the proprietor and turned to face the crowd of shoppers. There was still no sign of the Americans. He glanced around at his men. They were slowly moving through the crowd, making their way back to the vehicles. His standing had been the sign for them to start clearing out. Farid walked slowly down the row of shops to give them time. He stopped at one booth and chatted with one young shopkeeper, haggling over a trinket to pass more time.

Finally deciding to purchase the item, a small dagger, he reversed course and ambled back the way he had come. He stopped to watch a tiny lizard crawl up the wooden post of one of the booths. It stopped at one point, sunning itself in a patch of light for a moment before moving on. It crawled another meter up the post before pausing to observe an insect in its path. It was a common housefly, stopping to rest itself. The lizard watched it for a few seconds, turning its head sideways, debating whether or not to strike. The fly, oblivious to the threat only centimeters away, sat stationary and rubbed its hind legs together. Its decision made at last, the lizard leapt forward, its jaws open, and caught the fly in midair. In two gulps, it swallowed its little snack and continued on its journey. So did Farid, smiling as he did. Such were the hazards of nature.

His thirty men were all loaded up in their various trucks when he arrived. He climbed into the passenger seat of the second vehicle and nodded to the driver.

" _Kun hadhiraan min alkhatr_ (Be on the lookout for danger)," he warned, as they set out.

 _Na-am,"_ replied the driver, pressing down on the gas pedal.

Farid was fully aware his sizeable convoy would be easy to detect as it traveled along the roads. His eyes scanned the route constantly as they drove. If the Americans were here, they would be coming soon.

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton sat in the back of the American HMMWV behind Lieutenant Colonel Rey. It was the Americans who had found the link to Farid in the first place, he had decided, so he would let them lead the mission to take him down. He and his men would be here in support. All together, ten HMMWVs of British and American troops were concealed, watching and waiting for the colonel's word.

"There he goes," said Rey, as the line of six Mazda Bongo trucks slowly pulled away from the marketplace. Each truck had two men in the front and several more piled into the back. "We'll let them pull ahead a bit and then follow them."

"The hard part will be doing so without them being aware of it."

Rey nodded. The dust kicked up by the HMWWVs' tires, unless they were on hardtop the entire time, which was unlikely, was sure to give away their position. "Not much we can do about that. We just need to get them away from these civilians before we try to take them down."

"They're one and a half kilometers out now, Roughrider Six, over," reported Sergeant Strickman over the radio.

"Thank you, Snooper Two One, out," acknowledged Rey. He waited thirty seconds more and then gave the call to roll out.

"Okay," he said. "Let's get this guy."

After a few minutes of pursuit, Ashton fingers tightened around his SA80 rifle. He turned to look behind them. They were now several kilometers beyond the marketplace. He looked forward again. Farid's trucks were rounding a bend in the round, disappearing behind some berms.

"We'll take them once we clear that bend," Rey announced over the radio, looking at his map and foregoing all radio protocol. The other vehicles acknowledged.

Ashton waited impatiently. Their vehicle was the third in line. The first had just turned around the bend. He felt his body tense in apprehension. The second vehicle was now out of sight. He slowly flipped his rifle around, bring the barrel around to face the floor. He placed his hand on the pistol grip and prepared to release the safety. They cleared the bend. He could see Farid's trucks. His eyes widened. Then the explosions began.

xxxxxxxxxx

A smile split Farid's face. The road formed a semi-circle surrounded by berms. In its center was a large pond. His trucks were parked on the other side of the semi-circle waiting for the Americans. When the fifth vehicle came into view, his men opened fire with RPG-7 grenade launchers. Twenty of the fearsome 93mm rocket-propelled grenades arced over the pond toward the American vehicles. Twelve of them struck steel, exploding on impact.

Massive explosions and shrapnel blanketed the American position, concealing it totally with black smoke. One of the vehicles, the road beneath it severely weakened by two RPGs, slowly slid down into the pond below. It rolled once and came to rest on its side under the water. Farid's men cheered raucously at the sight and reloaded their weapons.

A gust of wind came in from the far side of the pond, clearing away much of the smoke. The battered Americans began to weakly reply with their own weaponry. Fifty caliber rounds began to smack above the heads of Farid's men. Waving his hands to catch their attention, Farid ordered them back into their vehicles.

" _Laqad wajahna darbatan lilh. yjb 'an natruk alan_ (We have struck our blow for Allah. We must leave now,)" he called over the fusillade. Under protest, the men began to return to the trucks. Their hesitancy evaporated when a line of explosions walked among them and one of the vehicles disintegrated. Farid cursed. The Americans now had one of their Mark-19 automatic grenade launchers in operation and 40mm grenades were raining down on them.

One minute and several more explosions later, he had everyone loaded up and moving. The men firing their AK-47 rifles furiously as they drove away, the reduced convoy pulled out.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Goddammit!" screamed Rey, as he watched the Bongo trucks disappear in the distance. Regaining control of himself quickly, he seized his hand mic and squeezed the button. "Snooper Two, Snooper Three, dismount and get down there and check on Snooper One. Charlie One One, Charlie One Two, dismount and get over to those Bongo trucks. Check them for survivors. Six out."

Rey threw the mic onto the dashboard. "Specialist Lightman," Ashton said to the vehicle's driver. "Would you and Specialist Welch be so good as to step out for a moment? The Colonel and I need to have a brief chat."

"Yes, sir," replied Lightman. Rey, sensing what Ashton was doing, remained silent while the driver and gunner retrieved their weapons and exited the HMMWV. Once they were alone, Rey allowed himself to vent.

"What a colossal fuckup," he sneered. "We trail this guy like happy little puppies and I let him walk us right into an ambush like a cherry lieutenant. I should have seen this coming." Rey put a hand over his eyes. "Oh, God. What have I done?"

Ashton reached across the front seat and placed a hand lightly on the man's shoulder. "You are not at fault, Colonel. I would have made the same error in your place. Farid is a tough opponent. Now, take a moment before we see to the state of our men, okay?"

Thirty minutes passed as the soldiers secured the area and dealt with the carnage. Besides the four dead insurgents and eight wounded prisoners, they had the ghastly task of counting their own casualties. The price was higher than they were prepared to take. Ashton silently accepted the news that two of his men were dead and another five were injured. The Americans, however, had paid a higher price: three dead and nine wounded. Those dead men were three members of the scout platoon, Sergeant Timothy Strickman, Specialist Jason Dealer, and Specialist Preston Salter.

xxxxxxxxxx

16 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Specialist Morgan sat down for breakfast and began to sprinkle pepper over his scrambled eggs. He looked across the table at Captain Charlie Sting, the battle captain for the previous evening's TOC shift. The man looked completely spent and disinterested in his food. Like many in the battalion, Morgan had a long-standing relationship with the man and was immediately concerned.

"What happened to you, sir? You don't look so good."

Sting brushed his close-shaven blond hair with his fingers and looked about the room. His blue eyes were dull with exhaustion. Despite this, he replied openly to Morgan.

"Let's just say it was a rough evening last night. It started out with a planned takedown of a high-value target and it went completely south from there. We had five killed last night. Two allied guys and three of our own."

Morgan's eyes went wide with shock. The packet of pepper in his hand fell to the paper plate, unnoticed. During all of the time in the Triangle, the battalion had endured the suffering of nearly seventy wounded men overall, but it had thus far never had a man killed in action. Morgan blinked twice and took a deep breath. Sting, who had once been a platoon leader in the Douglasville detachment where Morgan had worked, understood his apprehension. Gulping and taking another breath, afraid to ask the question for fear of the answer, Morgan softly stammered, "Wh-Who?"

"Dealer, Salter, and Strickman," answered Sting, just as quietly.

Morgan's eyes fell. He said nothing for several seconds. When he did at last look up into the captain's eyes, he simply stood and collected his plate and cup. Sting nodded. He understood. Who could eat at a time like this? Morgan turned and left, dumping his food in the bin at the exit.

He walked to his tent in a daze, not remembering how he got there, only that he was suddenly there. Unclipping his helmet, he let it fall onto his cot. He pulled the velcro on his body armor apart and let it slide off him, not caring that it and his weapon went clattering to the palleted floor. He slumped into his folding sports chair, burying his face in his hands. Only now did the tears come. There was no audible crying, only an unabashed flow of hot tears flowing from his eyes and leaking out of his palms.

When he couldn't bear it anymore, Morgan pulled his hands from his face and reached for a tissue from the box near his cot. He blew his nose forcefully and inhaled deeply. God, could he use a drink right now. A real one. He looked around. He had nothing but water and those damn flavor packets. They would have to do. He picked up a bottle and snatched a packet from the floor. Tearing off the top, he poured the powder into the bottle, replaced the top, and shook the bottle. Raising the bottle silently to the heavens, he removed the top once more and drank deeply. He drank half the bottle before he stopped. It did not slake his desire for real booze, but it did satisfy his urge to drink to his brothers-in-arms.

More automatically than out of any sense of thought, he reassembled his body armor and made his way to the staff tent. Again not really realizing how he got there, Morgan found himself in front of his laptop. He stared blankly at the screen. He tapped at the keys. He had no idea what was on the monitor. At last, he noticed Captain Bunt was speaking to him.

"Are you okay, Dan?"

"Huh?" Morgan asked, turning to face the officer.

"Do you need some time? You've been staring at that screen for twenty minutes. You haven't even taken off your IBA."

Blinking, Morgan looked down at himself. He saw his helmet sitting on the table next to his laptop, his rifle leaning lightly against his thigh, his fingers tapping the barrel. Finally nodding, he said, "I'm going to see the scouts."

Bunt pursed his lips and nodded, saying nothing. Morgan stood and walked out without another word. Another dreamlike walk brought him across the FOB to the scouts' area. How close they were to his own part of the FOB yet, also, how far they seemed.

He found Staff Sergeant Shawn Seibert, Strickman's squad leader, curiously clad only only in civilian khaki cargo shorts and sandals. The man's craggy face was blank. Morgan walked up to him slowly.

"I…" Morgan began, before his throat clamped down on him. He could say no more.

Seibert's light blue eyes focused on Morgan. Tears began to flow down the sides of the man's face as he reached out to embrace Morgan. Seibert pulled his friend close and let his sobs out uninhibited. Morgan did the same, finally giving an outlet to his own pain.

The men separated after thirty full seconds, looking into each other's eyes. The connection between them was closer than that of any blood or other fraternal tie. Such was the nature of brothers-in-arms.

"Thank you for coming, Daniel," said Seibert, his voice nearly breaking.

"How could I not, brother?" replied Morgan, all concerns concerns about rank temporarily forgotten.

Putting an arm around his shoulder, Seibert led him toward the nearest tent. "Come inside," he said. "Some of us have something and you should join us."

"Oh?" asked Morgan.

"A gift from Echo Troop," explained Seibert simply. "Their first sergeant came by with a canteen ten minutes ago and just said, "I don't see anything," and then walked away."

Morgan stepped inside the dark tent. Specialists Hunter Jay and Jamie Grenier were seated on a cot on the far side, a canteen between them. Seeing Seibert and Morgan in the dim, they motioned for them to approach. Grenier offered the canteen to Morgan. Seibert sat on the cot nearest the pair while Morgan sat with the two specialists.

Morgan sniffed the canteen. His first thought was vodka. He took a sip and grimaced. It was definitely not vodka. Some sort of local hooch, he thought. It wasn't bad, but he simply wasn't prepared for the taste of it. Grenier laughed.

"Oh, come on. It's not that bad."

"No, it's not," replied Morgan. "It just took me by surprise." He handed the canteen to Seibert. He refused.

"No, if I start, I'll drink it all. You guys go ahead."

Morgan took a long pull on the canteen and sat silently with the men. After two minutes, he finally asked, "What happened?"

It was Jay who answered. "We were out with the colonel and that British officer after the HVT the Brit wanted. We thought we'd catch him after he left the Mahmudiyah market after he didn't meet up with Abu Buckshot. Somehow, he caught wind of our tail and set up an ambush. He opened up on us with RPGs as we rounded a bend in the road. Took out three vehicles right off the bat. Killed two of the British guys and wounded a lot of our guys at the same time. The RPGs also caused the road under Sergeant Strickman's HMMWV to crumble and it slid down into the pond by the road.

"When we got down there to try to get them out of the truck, we found everybody already dead. Dealer was the gunner that day. We found him still strapped into the gunner's cupola. He was crushed when the vehicle rolled. Salter was the driver. His neck was broken. We found Sergeant Strickman still in the truck commander's seat. The battalion surgeon told us yesterday he was the only one with water in his lungs. Makes sense. He had taken off his IBA and must have tried to open the door to the HMMWV, but couldn't. It was too heavy. And the Blue Force Tracker equipment installed in front of him didn't give him enough room to move to the back seat to try to get out another way. He drowned right there. A whole truck lost right there."

Morgan sat, trying to assimilate the information. He could think of nothing to say. He took another pull from the canteen instead. At last, he leaned back in the cot, straightened his back, and began to softly recite a poem, the sacred cavalrymen's mantra known as _Fiddler's Green_. The others immediately joined him.

Halfway down the trail to Hell,

In a shady meadow green

Are the Souls of all dead Troopers camped,

Near a good old-time canteen.

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell

The Infantry are seen.

Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery and Marines,

For none but the shades of Cavalrymen

Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail

To seek a warmer scene.

No Trooper ever gets to Hell

Ere he's emptied his canteen.

And so rides back to drink again

With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles come to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddlers' Green.

Morgan took another large swallow from the canteen and gave it back to Grenier. The dark-haired specialist did the same and passed it to Jay. Gasping after taking his portion, Jay muttered bitterly, "We're going to have to make those bastards pay for this."

Morgan sat forward on the cot, his elbows on his knees. The alcohol was going to his head. He could feel it already. Absentmindedly, his hand went to the crest obscured by his Mandarin collar. Despite his own grief, he grinned weakly.

"Somehow, guys, I think retribution is coming. We just have to be patient."

xxxxxxxxxx

When Morgan returned to the staff tent, he found Brigadier Ashton and Sergeant Major Dublin standing behind Captain Bunt. All of them were glued to the images on the captain's laptop. He nodded at the trio wordlessly as he resumed his seat. They returned his nod, saying nothing about the obvious smell of alcohol about him. They only grinned.

"What have you got there, sir?" Morgan asked. He was glad he had at least remembered to drop off his armor and helmet in the right place this time.

"A possibility," was all Bunt said.

"A possibility for…" Morgan got no farther in his additional probing. Command Sergeant Major Gary Grayson, the replacement for Sergeant Major Ken Doal, stepped into the tent at that time.

"Alright, everyone," announced Grayson. "Assemble in the maintenance shed for the memorial ceremony. It will begin soon."

The staff members immediately ceased their work and moved toward the exit to collect their armor. It was time to recognize their fallen brothers.

xxxxxxxxxx

There was very little room to move about the place. Including the visiting NextGen men, over three hundred people were gathered together in the maintenance warehouse. There was even a small contingent from both the 84th Brigade and the 3rd Infantry Division which had rushed down to be present for the ceremony.

A small stage was erected in front of the crowd with a podium at its center. Soft music played throughout the warehouse. The general mood of everyone there was grim. Many of the soldiers present, both officer and enlisted, wore spurs on their boots and black stetsons on their heads.

To the right of the podium, three M4 carbines with bayonets affixed were stuck into pairs of boots with helmets on top of the buttstocks. To the left, two SA80 rifles, boots, and helmets were similarly fashioned. From the pistol grip of each weapon hung the ID tags of each soldier. Due to a lack of a British flag to accompany the U.S. flag, Colonel Rey had opted for there to be no flags present. Instead, each helmet bore a small flag of the nationality of each fallen soldier.

Colonel Rey stepped up to the podium. "Gentlemen," he said softly, momentarily forgetting about the two females attached to his battalion. "The ceremony will begin in five minutes."

He then stepped away to discuss a unique point of protocol that had just crossed his mind. The ceremony was to recognize 180th Armor soldiers, yes, and indeed he had lost more than the visiting British, but Ashton was a higher ranking officer. Who should speak first when the ceremony began? Placing a hand on the American's shoulder, Ashton assured him military protocol had no place here. The Americans, as the greatest sufferer of loss, should go first. Rey nodded and thanked him quietly. He returned to the podium.

"We will begin with the U.S. and British national anthems."

Everyone in the room stood at the position of attention at the two pieces of music played over the speakers. They silently waited as the last notes ended and the battalion chaplain took Rey's place at the podium. His opening prayer was empathetic and, when Ashton opened his eyes, he saw that those in the room who had not been crying beforehand were doing so now.

Rey returned to the microphone. He stood silently for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Reverently, he touched his stetson and began.

"The hardest thing for anyone given the responsibility of leadership to do is to deal with the loss of someone under his charge. It is difficult when it is one person and more so when it is several. Today, we cope with the loss of three cherished friends, brothers, who have served with us for many years. Sergeant Timothy Strickman, Specialist Jason Dealer, and Specialist Preston Salter, who were beloved members of our scout platoon, have been torn from us and we feel their absence painfully.

"Not only that, but two brothers-in-arms from our best ally, the great nation of England, who were serving with honor alongside us yesterday, have also been taken from our ranks, never to return. We will greatly miss Sergeant Andrew Carter and Staff Sergeant Lawrence Presley, two snipers who never had the chance to fire a shot yesterday. May their souls find peace and brotherhood in Fiddler's Green along with the troopers who have gone before them.

"All five of these men perished yesterday in the call of something greater than themselves. They died with honor, with dignity, and their sacrifice should never be diminished by anyone. Let no one denounce them. Ever. They were soldiers. And when soldiers die, it is always for the benefit of others, never for themselves."

Rey paused in his speech and removed his stetson. He held it high for all to see.

"Take a look at this. Everyone. I know not everyone in this room has earned the right to wear it. That doesn't matter. I want you to think about what it and the cavalry, in fact, what the whole damn military, means."

He took another breath and continued. "I'm getting a little emotional up here, but I think you all can understand why. Let me go on. The reason we fight, ultimately, is not about any of the shit you hear on television. It's not about politics. It's not about national security or any of that other bullshit the talking heads or the recruiters spout all day long. All of that is a byproduct of what we do. What really matters - and the real reason any of us do what we do - is the person to our right and left. Our brothers. _That_ is why we fight. To protect our brothers. Nothing else matters."

Rey put his stetson back on his head. "When one of us is hurt, when one of us dies, it affects us all. But, being soldiers, being a cut above everyone else, we stand up again and keep on fighting. To keep protecting our brothers so more of them do not get hurt. So more of them do not die.

"I want you to know that I take personal responsibility for what happened yesterday. The loss of all five of these good men has burned down to my soul. I intend to find the man who did this and strike back, to show him he cannot hurt my brothers and expect me to sit idly by. I will pursue him, find him, and kill him. And I need your help to do that."

Rey swept his hand over the crowd with his last sentence. Everyone in the room erupted into cheering and applause. He was still speaking, but whatever he said afterward was drowned out by the thunderous clapping of the men.

"The man should have been a politician," said Ashton under his breath, grinning.

When the applause finally died down, Rey nodded to them with a smile. "Thank you, gentlemen. That is all I have. I would now like to introduce Brigadier David Ashton of the British SAS."

Ashton solemnly ascended the three stairs of the stage, taking Rey's hand before assuming the podium. He faced the crowd.

"Thank you, Colonel Rey. There is very little I can say which you have not already which means I will be very brief. First of all, I wish to sincerely thank you for your recognition of my troopers in your ceremony. Your heartfelt statements are sincere and appreciated.

"Secondly, I would like to remove any sense of guilt about yesterday. The fault is, and entirely should be, my own. I and my men came here in search of the man, Aadam el-Farid, and yesterday's actions were in pursuit of that man. As I said myself, nothing occurred yesterday which I would not have done myself. For that reason, the blame rests with me.

"Let this not get you - and by that, I mean all of you - down, though. There is most definitely a path for hitting back. We are already developing that strike plan. We can already see it will be more than I and my forty men can handle on our own. We will need your help.

"I have already discussed this with Colonel Rey and obtained his permission to announce this. Tomorrow morning, after everyone has had a chance to recover from this tragedy, we will begin accepting volunteer men and units to assist us in the raid on Farid's position. That afternoon, we will begin rehearsals of the plan. Like Colonel Rey said himself, we will pursue him. With your help, we will kill him."

It took about two seconds for Ashton's words to sink into the crowd. Then they exploded into applause as loud as before. Ashton waved his hands to calm them.

"We seem to have become a little more frantic than the general mood of the event would dictate," he grinned. "I will now call forth the battalion chaplain."

The chaplain came forward again and read from Psalms. He was followed by the scout platoon leader, Lyle Menendez, and Major Jeffrey Burke, the Bravo Company Commander. Together, they took turns reading verses of _Fiddler's Green_. The chaplain then announced that those who wished could come forward to pray before the memorial crosses.

Men approached in twos and threes, kneeling and praying briefly before moving on. The entire scout platoon stormed the stage at once to kneel in front of the three M4s. After thirty seconds of silence, Sergeant Bader called, "Scouts out!" and they stood as one and departed. The NextGen men approached next, also moving onto the stage in a group, and spent the next minute in silent remembrance.

Rey raised his hand to signal for the final event of the ceremony, the twenty-one gun salute, when Specialist Morgan stepped out of the crowd and began to slowly ascend the stairs. Rey dropped his hand. The young man's face was again streaked with silent tears, still flowing. Rey wondered if he could even see his way as he walked.

Ashton watched as Morgan somehow made his way to the three scout crosses. With reverent slowness, cradling his M16 in one arm so it would not scrape the floor, he knelt at the center of them. From his position, he could see the specialist reach out and gently, almost tenderly, take hold of the first set of tags. He leaned forward and touched them to his forehead. His lips were moving quietly. Ashton's eyebrows rose as he watched the man's mouth move. Hebrew. The mourner's kaddish. Daniel Morgan was Jewish.

Showing equal attention to each cross, Morgan touched each set of tags to his forehead and remained kneeling before them until he had finished reciting the short kaddish. He then rocked back on his ankles and stood, rendering a salute to the crosses. Turning, he faced the British crosses. Ashton was surprised again as Morgan took four steps, knelt, and repeated the little ceremony for his own men. He smiled in silent thanks. When he was finished, Morgan stood and saluted again, and then left the stage without a glance at anyone and went straight to the back of the warehouse.

Rey signalled for the twenty-one gun salute. Two minutes later, the ceremony was over.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I know this is early, sir," said Morgan upon returning to the staff tent, "but I want to volunteer for your raid now."

Morgan stood next to Captain Bunt standing in front of his laptop. Ashton was nearby. Ashton tapped his fingers on the back of Bunt's empty chair as he considered the statement.

"What do you think about that, Captain?" he asked Bunt. His voice was noncommittal.

Bunt, who had been about to sit, straightened and turned his gaze from the computer up to Morgan. He then looked at Ashton.

"I don't think I could stop him, sir, even if I said no."

Ashton grinned. "I was thinking the same. Morgan, my boy, you're in for your second combat mission of this war."

Morgan sighed with relief. His expression showed he had expected to have been denied. Ashton raised a hand.

"Now that you're committed to it, would you like to see what it is?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have a seat."

They all sat around Bunt's laptop. In seconds, the blank screen showed the images it had before the ceremony. Ashton pointed with a finger.

"Based on what we have gleaned from Abu Buckshot's notes and the documents from al-Ghamdi, we believe this little camp outside of Mahmudiyah is where Farid is staging his men. We're going to air assault into it day after tomorrow."

"Air assault?" repeated Morgan. "Like fast-roping in?"

Ashton shook his head. "Not enough time to train everyone in the technique. We'll go in with Blackhawks and Chinooks."

"Wow!" replied Morgan. "So that's why we'll need to rehearse tomorrow. We need to practice actions on the objective."

"Exactly," said Ashton. "We've got to take your scouts and tankers and give them a crash course in being infantrymen tomorrow. Fortunately, their experiences here in the Triangle have provided them a great deal of a foundation in that so we won't be starting from scratch."

"And old Daniel here," said Bunt, slapping the specialist on the shoulder, "has a good bit of that foundation, too. He went through officer training when he was in college and was taught basic squad and platoon infantry tactics. Performed superbly in the field exercises from what my sources tell me, too."

"Is that a fact?" queried Ashton, his eyebrows rising again. "Well, surprises with you never cease, do they? Why did you not commission?"

"It's a long, sordid story," said Morgan.

"It always is," grinned Ashton. "We can discuss it over cigars when you come to visit me in England."

Morgan grinned at the reminder of the invitation. "Deal," he replied.

They returned their attention to the monitor and their plans.

xxxxxxxxxx

17 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael

A drone flight later that night gave them more accurate information as to the layout and occupancy of the enemy camp. Ashton considered but ultimately rejected a suggestion to simply lay artillery on the location. While he was willing to open the assault with such a barrage, he was of the opinion that only having troops on the ground would clearly determine whether or not they had achieved their goal.

"Looks like about one hundred eighty men or so," said Barrett, looking at the infrared photos from the drone the next morning. "That's going to be a tough fight even with the volunteers you're getting from our battalion."

Ashton, sitting next to the captain to view the images, along with Major Burke, nodded his agreement.

"You're right. At best, we'll only have one hundred or so when we go in. If we have any sort of outer cordon, which will be light at best, it will thin our assault force even further."

Colonel Rey, seated on Barrett's other side, grimaced. "That's an easy enough fix," he commented. I could assign Charlie Company of the 176th, our Alabama infantry, those who haven't already volunteered, to support this mission. That would give us how many more?"

Burke referred to the list of volunteers and counted quickly. "There are thirty-two men from the 176th on the list. How many are in the company?"

"One hundred sixty-five originally. They have…" Rey thought briefly, recalling his update from the personnel officer earlier that morning, "one hundred thirty-four available for duty."

"Another one hundred and change," muttered Ashton. "That would help out greatly." He nodded. "Let's do that, Colonel. I would have like to have kept this voluntary, but…"

"But the needs of the mission are greater," finished Rey. He leaned back in his chair. "Bunt, Morgan, put the word out to the 4th Alabama. They're on this mission. All of them."

"Yes, sir," affirmed Bunt.

Ashton nodded again and slowly stood. "Alright. I believe we have the men we need. I don't like the fact we won't have Blackhawks on this trip. Other than that, the basic plan is solid. Now let's get to the rehearsals." Looking at Major Burke, he added, "It's your show, Major."

Burke grinned. "You can count on us, sir."

Across the tent, Captain Bunt tapped Morgan on the shoulder. "You go on with them and attend the rehearsals," he said. "I'll take care of the FRAGO to the 176th."

"Yes, sir," replied Morgan.

xxxxxxxxxx

18 August 2005

Outskirts of Mahmudiyah

Aadam el-Farid had not slept well since the day at the marketplace. Despite having caught in the Americans in an ambush, he had lost almost half of the men with him in the venture. He had also been left with the sinking feeling that the Americans had better intelligence than he had given them credit. If he was right, they were all in grave danger.

Two hours ago, he had made a decision. They would not be waiting for al-Ghamdi's communique. Sure, it due day after tomorrow. What if it never came? In that case, Farid and his one hundred ninety-three men would be on their own without the reinforcements they hoped Al-Ghamdi would have been providing. Rather than wait any longer, Farid had awoken the men and ordered them to pack up. They were moving out. Roll out time would be at 04:30. They were going north to Syria.

An hour remained before departure time. Most of their gear was already packed. It was down to simply scouring the grounds for the little things they may have missed now, not an easy thing to do in the darkness. The men trudged about, yawning and adjusting the slings of their rifles on their shoulders as they searched. Farid insisted they remain armed regardless of the time or situation. Despite their grumbling, they complied.

Farid stood in the doorway of one of the buildings, observing their progress. His right hand rested on a 7.62x25mm CZ-52 pistol he had discovered abandoned in an Iraqi army fort a week before. To his amazement, the clunky pistol still functioned and had been left complete with two spare magazines and several boxes of ammunition. He had test fired the weapon several times and found it dependable and accurate, though heavy and clumsy in the changing of magazines. He wore it more for show, though, than as an actual weapon. The AK-47 rifle and Avarian sabre by his side were much more a part of him than the pistol would ever be.

Most of the trucks, now converted to technicals - with fifty caliber machine guns or other heavy weaponry installed in the beds - stood ready near the main gate. Most of the men lounged near the technicals. A few other vehicles waited near the buildings as the men continued loading what little gear they continued to find. Farid found himself growing impatient. He felt the pressure of the American threat like a constant buzzing in his ears.

Farid shook his head, realizing the buzzing was not solely in his mind. Despite himself, he stepped out and looked into the sky, knowing he would see nothing there. But he knew what it was. Helicopters. And something else. His eyes widened. Incoming artillery.

" _Madfaeiatan warda_ (Incoming artillery)," he screamed to the men around him as he dove to the ground. The more attentive of them followed suit.

Farid hit the sand and rolled against the side of the nearest building, the closest cover he could find. He clamped his hands to his ears, opening his mouth to prevent overpressure within his skull. Above the camp, six 120mm shells soared overhead and burst successively like massive thunderclaps. The ground shook with godlike stompings. Entire buildings were crushed by the concussion. Men screeched in agony as white hot shrapnel lanced through them.

Farid did not move for several seconds after the blasts ceased. When he was sure no more followed, he scrambled to all fours, shaking his head to clear it. His dust-filled eyes searched for his rifle and sabre. The sabre he found easily enough, laying a meter away from him. The rifle he saw protruding from the half-destroyed building by which he crouched, covered by debris. He reached out and pulled his beloved sabre to him. He realized he had bitten his tongue during the detonations.

He could feel the vibrations of the helicopters' rotors above him. Shaking his head again, he stood. The logical part of his brain dissected the Americans' plan. They had fired their artillery from one direction while their choppers approached from another. The soldiers would be out of danger from the shells and better able to attack the camp as soon as the explosions had ended. Their hope, at least, would be to mop up a camp mostly destroyed after the barrage. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Farid grinned. The Americans would not be expecting to find at least some of the camp's inhabitants still able to fight.

Farid put a hand against the shattered wall of the building and pulled himself to his feet. He could feel the downdraft of the landing aircraft and hear the shouting of soldiers as they streamed out. He looked about the camp. Many of its lights had been destroyed by the artillery. This would certainly aid the Americans since they would surely have the use of night vision goggles.

The shooting began in smatterings and then grew in intensity. Farid tucked his sabre into his belt, drew it slowly, and passed it over to his left hand. Drawing the heavy pistol in his right hand, he spat another wad of blood from his mouth and stepped out to join the fight.

Two Chinook helicopters had landed and disgorged its contents of soldiers into Farid's camp. They were now rising slowly into the air again. The invading men were already scattering in pre-arranged teams across the camp. In the distance, he could see his technicals approaching the invaders, the barrels of their weapons already spitting flame.

Standing atop a small dune, Farid was ten meters above a five-man team. He flipped the safety off his pistol and fired down on them one-handed. One man crumpled, clutching his thigh, while another tried to plug the hole in his throat. The remaining three responded with furious fire.

Farid slid behind his dune. Jabbing his sabre into the sand, he fed another magazine into his pistol. He could hear the other men's feverish breathing as they worked their way toward him. Farid paused for only a heartbeat as the sensation of an Immortal's presence seared through his spine. He grinned.

 _What a pleasant bonus. An American Quickening, perhaps?_

Standing again and taking a firm grip on his sabre, he ran back to the cluster of small buildings. He waited only long enough to be sure the Americans could see him before continuing down the alleyway. They pursued him like hounds after a fox.

xxxxxxxxxx

The entire scout platoon had volunteered for the mission. Specialist Morgan had been placed with them. Staff Sergeant Seibert had immediately had him placed in his squad. Seibert's squad, with a squad of tankers-made-infantry from Headquarters Company and a squad of scouts from Echo Troop, now formed an ad-hoc search-and-destroy platoon on the south side of the camp.

Upon landing, they had immediately dashed from the landing zone to their pre-assigned sector of buildings and begun searching and clearing each of them. They found them all either empty or flattened by the artillery barrage. The platoon then began its secondary mission as a security and blocking force, preventing the enemy from escaping through the gate in that area. Sergeant Matthew Stoley and Specialist Brandon Mellick set up M240B machine guns and waited. Sergeant Gary Dremmon lay next to Stoley while Specialist Grenier lay next to Mellick, both acting as assistant gunners.

The approach of the enemy they fully expected. What they did not expect was technicals. Stoley and Mellick opened up with the 240s, laying brutal bursts of thirty caliber fire on the trucks. The return fire was absolute hell. The makeshift platoon fired back with all of its carbines and rifles. The tiny .223mm bullets seemed like pop shots compared to the cannonade of fifty caliber and RPG fire. The overpowered men screamed, cursed, and kept shooting.

xxxxxxxxxx

Farid waited five meters inside the corner of the alley. The first man of the three tailing him was the Immortal. At this distance, the buzz was too distinct. The man's carbine was at his shoulder as he turned the corner, very professional. Farid's sabre caught the barrel, turning it to the side, and slid toward the man's face. Reacting immediately, the unknown Immortal twisted his head to his right to avoid the sabre tip. This distracted him from Farid's pistol. Two rounds to the chest took his breath away. The Avarian sabre knocked the carbine from the Immortal's grasp.

The man's teammate's were right behind him. Farid raised the CZ-52 higher, firing one round directly into the silhouette of the oncoming soldier's face. The dead man collapsed instantly. Farid pulled the trigger twice more, into the chest of the next man, knocking the other soldier off his feet.

The Immortal at Farid's side had regained his breath by now. The Arab smiled as the man reached behind his back for the sword on his web gear.

"I don't think so," said Farid, firing again into the man's chest. The fact he likely wore body armor made no difference. The shock of the round's impact had the desired effect. "I don't feel like playing fair today."

His balance shaken, the Immortal's hand dropped from its attempt to seek a weapon and reached out to achieve stasis. In that moment, Farid's sabre struck. In the same instant, the Arab Immortal recognized the dying Immortal's uniform in the dim light. The meaning of it hit him at the same time as the Quickening. The Americans were not the only ones seeking him this morning. Ashton was here, too.

xxxxxxxxxx

"What the hell is that?" Morgan wondered to himself. Off to his right, the most incredible localized electrical storm he had ever seen was taking place. Localized was the key word. It all seemed to be focused on one general area.

He glanced around the battlefield quickly. Everyone's attention also seemed to have turned to the storm. He tapped Sergeant Seibert's shoulder.

"Sergeant, we can take out those two technicals while they're distracted."

Shaking his head to bring himself back to reality, the sergeant said, "You're right." Motioning to the other platoon members, he ordered, "Let's go get them."

xxxxxxxxxx

The sight of the Quickening took the fight out of many of nearly everyone in the camp. The remaining jihadis opted to flee instead of fight. Several died en route to vehicles. Many more made it to trucks and sped pell mell to the open north gate, barrelling through it despite the presence of soldiers located there. The American and British soldiers, for the most part, were so stunned by the presence of the strange light show, they did not resist. They only watched in stupefied silence. Only after Brigadier Ashton's enraged shouts brought them out of their fog did they resume shooting at the retreating enemy.

Ashton stood at the gate, feeling the presence of an Immortal pass by him as one of the trucks sped by him. Unleashing a curse, he unloaded a full magazine at the vehicle, toppling two of its inhabitants from its bed and shattering the rear windscreen. Only when his bolt slammed to the rear on an empty magazine did he stop firing.

"God-fucking-dammit," he howled, fighting the overwhelming urge to hurl his weapon to the ground. He stood in place for nearly a full minute, eyes downcast, heaving deep breaths, battling for calm. Only when the red cleared from his vision did he look up again. Major Burke and Lieutenant Colonel Rey were standing with him now.

"Alright," he said, his voice calmer. "We need to consolidate and get after them. This is the closest we've been to Farid since we got here. We can't let him escape now."

"Right," agreed Rey. "I'll give you a slice of vehicles and men so you can keep up the chase. You'll have whatever you need. I'll keep a drone overhead so we know their position until you can catch up."

Ashton was about to wave off the offer of Rey's men until reason caught up with his emotion. He said simply, "Thank you, Colonel," and walked away.

Rey let him go. He didn't know what it was, but there was an uncanny concern in the man's eyes. The brigadier was walking directly toward the area where the light show had taken place. Despite the growing light from the rising sun, the man's temperament seemed dim.

 _What happened over there?_

"Colonel, I need a medic over here," Ashton called. He was standing beneath a dune applying pressure to the thigh of one of his men. Another man lay still next to him. Rey did not need to do anything. From another direction, a medical specialist came running.

"On the way, sir," the young man announced, his aid bag bouncing on his back.

Rey and Burke ran up to Ashton. The soldier, one of Ashton's NextGen men, Sergeant Yancy, was barely conscious and incoherent.

"It's alright, sergeant," soothed the medic, applying a pressure bandage. "I'll take good care of you. Don't worry."

Yancy muttered a few unintelligible words and then passed out. The medic looked up at the officers. "He'll be fine as long as we can get him to a hospital in the next few hours."

Ashton nodded and looked up at the top of the dune. He pointed. "Let's go up there," he said. The four men trudged up to the top, following the imprints of three men who had gone before them. The path the trio had taken in following their quarry was plain. Ashton shook his head sadly as they walked. At least three of the four were not prepared for the horror show that awaited them as they reached the corner alley.

Visible in the pathway, one soldier lay either unconscious or dead. The legs of another soldier could be seen extending from the alley to the left. The medic ran up to the soldier in the path and knelt by him.

"This one's alive. Looks like he got knocked out when he hit the dirt." The medic's vision drifted to the left as he assessed the soldier.

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed, involuntarily skittering closing to the far wall. Burke and Rey ran to the alley. Ashton did not run. He already knew what lay there. The only question was who it was.

When the Minoan turned the corner, he glanced downward to see one of his men face down on the ground. He knelt, delaying the inevitable for a moment longer, and turned the man over. The soldier's face was virtually destroyed by the bullet, but Ashton knew his men. Sergeant Aaron Corinth. He sighed and slowly lowered the soldier back to the ground. He stood and walked over to the decapitated body.

He saw the boots first. He stared at them for a moment. No, he could not tell Dublin or Griffin by their boots. They wore the same type. Grudgingly, he looked further up. He took another deep breath and nodded glacially. Without a word, he turned back to the only one of the three men that could be helped.

The soldier was regaining consciousness as Ashton knelt next to him. The Minoan placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Looking passed the streaks of dirt and blood on the man's face, he gazed into the soldier's eyes.

"How are you, Sergeant Sather?" he asked softly.

"I feel like shit," groaned the soldier, patting his body armor where the two pistol rounds had hit him. Sather's eyes widened. "Pad? How's Pad?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Ashton tightened his grip on Sather's shoulder and shook his head.

"Goddammit," wheezed Sather with a cough.

xxxxxxxxxx

19 August 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Staff Apartments

Jack Connelly collapsed into his overstuffed chair. He kicked first one shoe then the other off his tired feet and stretched out his legs, sighing and running a hand through his hair. Never in his life did he think being a battle tracker would be as draining as his life as an infantryman. Well, he was either getting soft or he was horribly wrong. Keeping up with NextGen's operations around the world, and particularly in Iraq at the moment, was depleting him of all his reserves of energy.

Just in the last week, NextGen teams had been involved in five firefights across the globe. Three of them had involved casualties. Not only was the TOC responsible for managing those operations but all of the subsidiary missions, as well. Such as reaching out to families of the fallen or injured and assisting them with survivor benefits and grief counseling. The dead and wounded had to be transported back to England; the families had to receive proper care; and it all had to be done right away. Oh, and don't forget to keep Charlie Company supplied with ammo in Nigeria. What about that Shadow detachment in Zimbabwe; how are they faring?

Everything went through the TOC. Jack's brain was swimming with so much information from so many fronts he could hardly keep anything straight. All he wanted right now was a beer and a nap. Maybe two beers.

Oh, damn. He had not done anything regarding Tristan's chronicles in the past week. He couldn't let that slip, either. Chalk that up as another one of the myriad things going on inside his addled mind. Better make that three beers before his nap. Maybe the nap will become an all-nighter. No worries. He'll make up for it with an early morning run. He was dependable enough to himself, at least, to do that.

Sighing again, Jack ambled over to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he peered inside. Perfect. Three beers. He reached inside and snagged a bottle. His fingers were poised over the bottle opener attached by a magnet to the fridge's door when he heard a knock on his apartment door.

 _Ah, hell, what now?_ he wondered, padding over to the door in his sock feet. Putting his eye to the peephole, he smirked. _Well, wonders never cease._ He opened the door. Johnny Fairbanks and Tristan Dahl stood there, eyes focused expectantly up at him.

"Hi, Jack," said Tristan, a small grin on his lips. "Haven't seen you in a while."

Running a nervous hand through his hair again, Jack answered, "Yeah, it's been a bitch at work." He blanched. "Holy shit. I sound like an old man." He waved the boys inside. "Come in. Come in."

Shutting the door, he reverted to host mode. "As you can see, I was just about to have a beer. I have two more in the fridge. You're welcome to them, if you like."

"Thanks," said Tristan solemnly. "I think, in a moment anyway, I'm going to need it." He opened the refrigerator and retrieved a bottle for himself. Glancing back, he inquired with a look whether Johnny wanted one, as well. For a brief moment, Johnny appeared like he might refuse it, then he nodded. Jack furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He waited to see what the boys had in store for him.

Tristan took the bottle opener down from the refrigerator door and offered it to Jack first. As it made its way around, Jack asked, "Is it that serious?"

Tristan nodded.

"How serious?"

"So much so that we came to you rather than asking you to come to the house or to NextGen HQ. How's that?" answered Johnny.

Whistling, Jack motioned toward the chairs. "That's pretty serious. What's going on?"

Tristan and Johnny sat on Jack's couch while Jack resumed his place in the overstuffed chair. Tristan took a sip of his beer before answering.

"Remember last year when I broke into Farid's laptop and read his email?"

Jack frowned. "Yeah, it helped shut down one of his bases of operation and forced him to relocate. We captured a few of his guys and identified Carlton Pollack as one of the people helping him."

Tristan shifted on the couch, bringing one foot under his thigh. He sipped again. "I want to look at it again. If he went to the trouble of encrypting the computer in the first place, I think it might have had other information on it I missed the first time."

"Why would you have missed it?" asked Jack.

"Because I was in a rush."

Jack sat back in his chair, taking a long pull on his beer. He looked the boy Immortal in the eye. "I know how good you are, Tristan, and please don't take this the wrong way, but what makes you think you would find something after NextGen has gone over that thing for the last year?"

Tristan grinned at him. "That's the thing. They're looking for the obvious things, emails and other documents with useful intelligence. I want to look deeper than that."

"For what?"

"Evidence of the mole in NextGen."

Jack was in mid-sip. He sputtered and started coughing. When he could finally breathe, he gasped, "Mole?"

It was Johnny who responded this time. In a stern voice, he said, "Don't pretend to be blind to it, Jack. You've seen it the whole time just like we have. Ever since this began, every time David and his men seemed to be closing in on Farid, something happened and Farid gets away. Usually, several of David's men get killed, too."

Jack went pale. Both Johnny and Tristan noticed. With a softer tone, Johnny asked, "How many?"

"Four," replied Jack. "Yesterday. And two more three days before that. That's not counting the Americans who died." The boys sank deeper into the couch cushions. "And you're right. Farid got away both times. The brigadier is currently pursuing them with the help of the Americans."

"That's exactly what I meant," whispered Johnny. "He knows something…and it's coming from here. I think Tristan can prove it."

"But surely any information on that old laptop would have been changed by now. All those documents are fairly useless by now," countered Jack.

"That's what I mean by looking deeper," said Tristan, putting both feet on the floor. "I think he was doing more than just sending emails back and forth. I'd bet he had a remote hookup to the other computers in the chain, to the other people in his network. If I can see some evidence of that and they're still using any of those computers, I might still be able to use it to trace them. See what I mean?"

Jack sat forward slowly, putting his elbows on his knees. The chair creaked as he moved. The Watcher blinked once and nodded. "Yeah, I get it now. It makes sense."

"Can you make it happen?" asked Johnny. "Can you get the laptop for him?"

"Maybe." Jack sipped his beer. "Farid is a current case and I can access anything involving current operations. Whether I can remove it from NextGen HQ is another question."

"They know Tristan has helped in the past," Johnny prodded. "His doing so again can't be too much of a problem. I think the big issue would be getting it out of there without anyone knowing about it."

Jack nodded again. "I'll talk to Weatheral about it. He won't take kindly to the thought of a mole in the organization. He'll help me do it, definitely. Give me a few days. I'll get it for you."


	36. You Better Run

"Feel the bile rising from your guilty past  
With your nerves in tatters as the cockle shell shatters  
And the hammers batter down the door  
You better run"

"Run Like Hell" - Pink Floyd

23 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Specialist Morgan sat near his tent smoking a cigar. He still had not adjusted to doing so alone after the camaraderie he had developed with Brigadier Ashton and his SAS detachment during their brief stay. As with so many things, one never realized how much something was cherished until it was gone.

Ashton's men had only returned to the FOB long enough to refit and then had immediately departed along with a generous detachment of men and equipment provided by Lieutenant Colonel Rey. Except for leaving Major Burke as a representative, they had even missed the memorial ceremony for their four fallen troopers: Warrant Officer Paderau Griffin, Sergeant Aaron Corinth, Staff Sergeant Warren Singer, and Sergeant Rin Hayabashi. They had been honored along with the three soldiers the 180th had also lost that day: Sergeant Matthew Stoley, Sergeant Gary Dremmon, and Staff Sergeant Richard Harrow. The event had been emotional but, following so closely to the loss of the three scouts a few days earlier, the attendees were mostly numb.

Lieutenant Colonel Rey had quintupled Ashton's remaining contingent of men - twenty-five including himself - by attaching one hundred one infantry, medics, fuelers, mechanics, drone operators and other MOSs to SAS control. He had also signed over a consignment of eighteen up-armored HMMWVs, five medical HMMWVs, a surveillance drone, two cargo HEMTTs (Heavy Expanded Mobility Tactical Truck), four fuel HEMTTs, and even his battalion's precious maintenance HEMTT. The vehicles, along with their basic equipment and weapons, made for a small rolling army. With the stroke of a pen, it was all the responsibility of Brigadier David Ashton.

Morgan had not been completely abandoned by the SAS. Ashton had dropped by the staff tent to say goodbye personally. Morgan had asked to accompany them but this time Captain Bunt had refused him. Ashton had given him three specialty cigars as a going-away present. One of those smoldered between his fingers now; the other two he would save until the right occasion.

Morgan's eyes were caught by arcing tracers in the distance. He smirked to himself. He knew somewhere in that direction a sheik was celebrating the wedding of his daughter. They were engaging in one of their usual customs, firing weapons into the air. Morgan wondered how many people would die as a result of the errant rounds coming back to earth.

The dour thought reminded him of the raid on the camp just a few days ago. Dremmon and Stoley had died right next to him at one point. Never mind the fact that eighty-six of the enemy had been killed and another thirty-four wounded and taken prisoner. That hardly mattered to him. The seven men on his side, the ones with names, were what mattered.

For some morbid reason, he thought about Warrant Officer Griffin, who had been beheaded that day. That fact chilled him especially. He grit his teeth and took a puff from his cigar. He eyed the tube of fine tobacco as he exhaled the thick cloud of smoke.

"Brigadier," he said to the night air, "I hope you find this Farid guy and do the same to him."

xxxxxxxxxx

26 August 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Tristan tapped a few keys on the laptop, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He waited impatiently. Next to him, Johnny Fairbanks did the same, though he wasn't sure for what. He simply sat in his chair and alternately tapped the ends of his fingers together to a tune only he could hear in his head. When the screen finally flashed a result, Tristan gasped in exasperation and leaned back.

"So far," he said, "it looks like Jack is right. I'm not finding much of anything useful on here. Just a lot of old stuff that we already know about. Stuff they've already changed around enough to be totally useless. I haven't even found one little hint that Farid was linking himself to other computers."

"Is it possible he wasn't?" Johnny wondered. "Could he have only be sending emails to his accomplices?"

Tristan shook his head. "I just can't bring myself to accept that. A guy who at least knows enough to password-protect his computer and encrypt his data? There has to be more than that. No, he wasn't just a simple computer user. He knew how to do more than just send an email, as well. I just haven't found the proof yet."

Tristan turned in his chair and faced his friend. "What do you do when you've run into a wall and don't know what to do?"

Johnny shrugged. "Get drunk. Get laid. Get high. Take your pick. They all take my mind off the problem, at least for a little while."

Tristan frowned. "Somehow, I don't think any of those will help me right now." After a few seconds, he changed his mind. "Ah, the hell with it. Maybe I do need to just let my mind wander for a bit. Go grab a bottle of David's Scotch and some glasses."

A knock at the door brought their conversation to an abrupt pause. Tristan nodded to Johnny to answer the door while he turned back to the desk. Shutting the top of the computer, he disconnected it from the power supply and slid it on its side next to his feet under his desk. He pulled his own laptop forward and opened it. Johnny opened the door. Alyssa and Paula stood there in workout clothes. From the imprints beneath them, it was clear they wore bathing suits underneath.

"Hi, boys," grinned Alyssa. "We thought Tristan could use a break from working on his dreary old history report. We were going to have a quick workout in the gym and then go to the pool. Would you two like to join us?"

"No, thanks," answered Tristan, swiveling in his chair. "Johnny helped me come up with a great topic and sources for the report and I'm making great progress on it. I don't want to stop now."

"Oh, really?" inquired Paula. "What's the topic and sources?"

"The Children's Crusade," replied Johnny quickly. "And he's got the best source of all: me."

"I'm not sure that your account would qualify as a valid source for a report," Paula commented, frowning slightly.

"It just so happens, my beautiful lady, that David talked me into writing all of my experiences down into a journal during the time he was training me. I happen to still have it. Call it a "lost first-hand account" of someone who was there. So, as much as we would dearly love to see the two of you all sweaty and dressed only in revealing swim attire," - he let his eyes crawl slowly across their bodies for emphasis - "I am afraid we will have to pass for tonight."

"It's your loss, Johnny Fair," stated Alyssa as she turned and walked away.

"It surely is," Johnny whispered, watching them leave. "Yes, it is." He backed into the room and shut the door gently.

"I'm such an idiot," he said, shaking his head. "Two of the most beautiful girls in the world are walking away from us right now and I'm shut up in here with you." Jonny grinned mischievously at his friend. "I mean, sure, you're cute and all, but you're not my type."

Tristan stuck out his tongue. "Not even for a cuddle on a cold night?"

"Hah!" laughed Johnny. "Now you're starting to sound like me. And, sure, I'd pull you close on a cold winter's evening. Just for warmth, of course. Well, I might nuzzle your ear, too, or something like that." He stuck out his own tongue at that comment. Tristan laughed and threw a magazine at him.

"Where's the Scotch, you little horn dog?"

"Give it another minute or two for the girls to get away. I'll go get it then.

Johnny stood at the door and counted mentally to one hundred before opening it again and scampering down the hall. He returned a few minutes later, a triumphant grin on his face, bearing a bottle of eighteen-year old Macallan Scotch and two tumblers.

"Fire water to increase the firing of neurons," he declared after shutting the door.

Tristan smirked. "Or drown them completely."

"Either way, you win. You'll be too happy after drinking this stuff to care. I'll admit it's what David calls "mid-grade" Scotch, but for people like us, it's absolutely awesome."

"People who aren't bleeding money, you mean?" Tristan clarified, grinning.

"Exactly," agreed Johnny.

"But, wait a minute," said Tristan, holding up a finger of one hand as he accepted a full tumbler with the other. "Are you bleeding money, too?"

Jonny set the bottle on Tristan's dresser and inserted the cork. Sipping from his tumbler, he grinned. "Well, compared to a lot of people, yeah, but compared to David, I'm a bloody pauper."

"Heh, heh, I'd bet fewer than a thousand people in the world don't look like paupers compared to him."

Johnny smirked again over his glass. "If you said fewer than a dozen, you'd be closer."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. He's like Bond villain rich. There are probably only ten or so people in the world on the same level as him. He could snap his fingers and destroy entire countries, even the U.S., if he wanted. When it comes to economics and making it work in his favor, there's practically no one better."

Tristan blinked and stared at him.

"What? What is it?"

Tristan sipped from his tumbler as his turned back to his desk. He answered as he pulled Farid's laptop from its hiding place under his desk.

"Something I saw in all the jumble of stuff on this computer," he said. "There were a lot of maps and timetables and stuff like that dealing with the underground and the buses and their routes and whatnot. We expected that, right?" Johnny nodded.

"There was also some personal stuff, at least I thought it was personal. It was mostly religious, like biographical studies on the life of Muhammed and the prophets, but there was other stuff in that folder, too. Here it is."

Tristan clicked on a folder on the desktop labeled _Personal_. He pointed at the screen. "See? Mostly stuff on Islam. I didn't pay much attention to it because the guy's a religious nut. But look here."

The boy's finger hovered near one file. _England's Economic Growth Since 1950_. He scanned the folder for a second more. "Here's another." His finger moved. _Transport of Commerce in Europe in the Latter Twentieth Century_. Tristan looked through the folder for a few more seconds.

"There are ninety-seven files in this folder. Most of them are religious, some are history, but thirty-eight of them are about economics." He opened the one entitled _Transport of Commerce in Europe in the Latter Twentieth Century_. He hit the Page Down button several times.

"Whoa!" he said, reaching for his tumbler as he gazed at the chart on the screen. "This thing is deep. Does Farid know enough about economics to even understand what this thing means?"

Johnny stepped closer to the screen and studied the graph carefully. He shook his head. "I don't know. Does it make any sense to you?"

"Only in the slightest," Tristan admitted. "Paula's taught me a lot over the last year, but this is heavy into econometrics, the use of mathematical methods - especially statistics - in describing economic systems. This is her area of expertise, or David's. She's shown me some basics but I haven't really gotten into it yet. I'll start basic statistics next month and, even then, I won't be able to understand this kind of stuff for a while."

Tristan swivelled his chair around again. He took a large gulp of Scotch and looked into his friend's eyes. "I'm out of my league if we want to understand this kind of thing. Do we need to bring Paula into the loop on this?"

Johnny tapped the fingers of his left hand against his thigh as his sipped from his own tumbler. At the moment, only the two of them knew about the laptop project. He shook his head.

"Not yet," he finally decided. "Let's just take down a list of questions as we go. If we can't answer them as we research things, we'll think again about bringing other people in to help. Right now, I think it's best to keep this between just us."

Swivelling back to the laptop, Tristan agreed. "Okay," he said as he closed the folder. His eyes narrowed on an icon on the desktop. "What's this?" he asked the air.

"What?" inquired Johnny.

Tristan pointed again. The icon he indicated had an Arabic description underneath it. Tristan could speak the language well enough by now but had not yet learned to read it. "What's that say?" he asked.

Johnny read it to him. "Basic Quranic Studies," and added dismissively, "So?"

"Why would a guy who has been a Muslim since the time of Muhammed need a program on the basics of the _Quran_?"

"Why do Christians and Jews have the Bible or the Torah on their computers?" countered Johnny.

"Good point, but it still seems odd." Tristan clicked the icon. A password prompt appeared.

"Are those neurons firing yet?" asked Johnny, grinning.

"I think they just started," answered Tristan, draining his tumbler.

xxxxxxxxxx

28 August 2005

FOB Saint Michael, Iraq

Specialist Morgan remained quiet during the mission brief. He had already shown up two minutes late and received a nasty glare from Sergeant First Class Lang as a result. He didn't want any other repercussions from the man. Since his firefight with Al-Ghamdi's men a month ago, he had become a bit of a local celebrity and had been invited on several mounted patrols, three in HMWWVs, one as a gunner and two as a dismount (a soldier in one of the HMWWV's rear passenger seats), and another once more as a tank loader. This was his first opportunity for a dismounted patrol and he didn't want to blow it now.

"Alright, guys, listen up," began Lang. "First of all, let me set a few things straight. We have an interesting condition today since Sergeant Major Wagner will be joining us on this mission. However, we will be doing things a little differently in that I will be the patrol leader and he will be the assistant patrol leader. Understood?

"Here's what we're doing today. The short version. We have two objectives this morning. As you know, the FOB is overrun with mice. That is because a local farmer has built a dam along the canal running through the FOB. Sure it helps with his crops but it has also raised the water levels here and caused our mouse problem. Our primary objective is to isolate and blow up that dam.

"Sergeant Venneman and Specialist Caldwell are combat engineers and will handle the explosives on site. They have more than enough with them to do the job and I have told them that we will not be returning with any of it. While there, they will be the main effort and we will provide security for them. I will also take an interpreter and two men to the farmer's house and inform him of our intentions.

"Next, a new mosque has been identified a few blocks away from the vicinity of the dam. After we have achieved our first objective or if we determine it cannot be achieved, we will travel along the roadways to the site of the new mosque and reconnoiter it. We will take photographs and gather other intelligence, as needed, to determine if it is a site used for AIF support.

"The cover story for our presence in the area of the mosque will be a civil affairs mission, primarily to identify families in need of future food drop-offs, and to the distribute games and toys to the children in the area as a goodwill gesture. I am well known in the town for leading civil affairs missions so my presence will lend credibility to the story. Sergeant Hopkins over there is known to be a combat photographer and reporter so seeing him with a camera will not be thought to be out of the ordinary. Staff Sergeants Maxwell and Devlin will query the locals for information in conjunction with the interpreters, "Luke" and "Bob," that you see standing behind me, while we are there. Sergeants Maxwell, Devlin, and Hopkins are the main effort on the secondary objective. The rest of you will be security while they work.

"Once we have finished at the mosque, we will be a considerable distance from the FOB, about seven kilometers. We will move to a small walled plantation owned by a Shi'a man who will provide us shelter while we rest for an hour. Be sure to check your feet and gear while you have the chance. After that, we will proceed back to the FOB. We will re-enter the FOB by way of the gate by the flight pad.

"Are there any questions so far?" Lang looked at each of the eleven men in front of him. They all shook their heads. He nodded and continued.

"I know we all got up too early for breakfast. Have all of you eaten something? Raise your hands if you have." Everyone raised a hand.

"Good. Does everyone have an MRE or at least a high-calorie snack in their cargo pocket for later? We're going to miss lunch." Again, everyone raised their hands.

"Now, everyone check each other and make sure you have at least ten magazines of ammunition. Staff Sergeant Klaus, since you're the machine gunner, make sure you have at least three extra drums with you. Also make sure everyone has a full Camelbak and a spare pair of socks, preferably sealed in a plastic bag."

Lang stepped over to Klaus and gave him a quick inspection, tapping his Camelbak and looking inside his patrol pack. He nodded with satisfaction and then had Klaus check him, as well.

Morgan turned to Sergeant Major Wagner. In jest, he placed his hands behind his head like a prisoner being searched. Wagner smirked as he checked Morgan's gear.

"Cute," he said dryly. "You're about to make history, you know?"

"How's that, Sergeant Major?"

"You're about to take part in the first foot patrol to ever take place in the Sunni Triangle."

"The first?" questioned Morgan, his smile fading. "There have never been any others?"

Wagner shook his head. "No. It was always considered too dangerous, but Colonel Rey decided the needs of this mission necessitated the risk."

Morgan lowered his hands and began searching Wagner's equipment, forcing his mind to stay on topic. He could not repress a shudder. Keeping his eyes on what he was doing, he kept talking.

"And yet we're still going on this mission, a couple of headquarters guys?"

"Heh, luck of the draw. I asked for the next mission and you're friends with Sergeant Lang. He invited you and you've never been one to turn down a friend."

"Somehow I think I'm underqualified for this now," said Morgan.

Wagner chuckled. "This coming from the guy who got IEDed on his first patrol and faced down thirty insurgents by himself? And after that goes on an air assault mission with the SAS? And four other patrols after that?"

Morgan looked up at the tall man and grinned, a touch of shyness on his face. "Sergeant Major, there's a lot to be said about having three feet of steel between you and danger and a 240 in your hands and your degree of courage. The rest, well, I had either a fifty cal or a lot of others with me to help. Being with only a dozen guys and having just a rifle is another story. And, besides, there were no engagements during any of those missions after the SAS guys left. It was just rolling around and coming back to the FOB."

Wagner, a career tanker himself, smiled and clapped Morgan on the shoulder. "Somehow, I think that's just nerves talking. I think, if I had seen you that first day, I would have seen a dragon."

"I feel like a tiny lizard right now."

"How did you feel before every other patrol you went on?"

Morgan grinned again. "The same," he admitted. "I was terrified."

"Even the smallest lizard preys on something, Morgan, and something else fears it. And today, I am in the same boat you were last month. Not counting that day I went out to pick you up, this is my first patrol ever."

"Really?"

Wagner nodded. "Well, I hope it's a boring one, then. I've decided the old Chinese curse of "May you live in interesting times" is a real curse. It reads well in history books, but it really sucks to live through it."

"Equipment checks complete?" asked Lang.

"Yes, Sergeant," chorused the group.

"Alright, now for the final assignments. Specialist Nakayama, you are Santa Claus. You will carry the bag of games and toys for the kids for when we get to the mosque. Sergeant Griffin, my assistant civil affairs NCO, is the grenadier for this mission. Staff Sergeant Klaus, usually our supply sergeant, is the machine gunner. Specialist Caldwell will have the additional duty of carrying the radio. Specialist Hill is our medic. Now, one more thing, everyone come over here and fill one cargo pocket with hard candy from the bag on this table. It will be a good way for you to gain rapport with the children when you meet them."

After filling their pockets, Sergeant Griffin set the bag inside the small building he and Lang used as living quarters and shut the door. Lang led the small group over to one of the FOBs many gates. He checked his watch.

"The sun will be coming up in about forty minutes," he said. "If we set a good pace, we can be at the farmer's dam in thirty-five and be there at first light. Load your weapons and chamber a round. Caldwell, tell the TOC we're departing."

"You know, Morgan," commented Wagner in a soft tone as they walked through the gate. "I just realized how extreme the pucker factor is when you chamber that first round before going on a mission. I didn't even feel this the day I went out to pick you up."

"Yeah," whispered Morgan. "It's monstrous, isn't it?"

For a man claiming to be fifty-two years old, Sergeant First Class Todd Lang was in superb physical condition. He set a quick, but manageable pace for the rest of the squad to follow. Mostly manageable, at least. While the majority of the men hung on, some with difficulty, there were a few who were struggling.

"Morgan," whispered Sergeant Major Wagner in the pre-dawn air. "Fall back and try to get those guys to catch up, will you?"

"On it," replied Morgan. As he trotted to the end of the double line, he grinned to himself. His own breathing was ever so slightly elevated from the exertion, but not enough so that anyone could notice. Considering Lang was, as Morgan liked to call them, "one of those Airborne Ranger types," he was actually quite pleased with himself. Reaching the rear of the patrol, he saw the problem was not as bad as he thought. Or maybe worse, depending on perspective.

Three men were lagging behind, the two interpreters, "Luke" and "Bob," and Specialist Hill. Morgan was only somewhat surprised by Hill's falling back. Medics had to carry not only the usual gear of a soldier on patrol but all of the weight of their aid bag, as well. It was quite a burden to bear. However, as Morgan neared the three men, he saw the Hill was not actually that tired.

"Come on, "Luke,"" whispered Hill. "We need to catch up. Just walk a little faster."

In the moonlight, Morgan signalled to Hill that he would see to "Bob." Hill gave him a thumbs-up and Morgan jogged to the other side of the road. Morgan could not see the interpreter's face due to the balaclava he wore, a precaution all the terps followed, but there was no mistaking the fourteen extra kilos of weight around the man's midsection. The terp's breathing made Morgan think of a dying freight train. He trotted back to Hill.

"Hey," he breathed to the medic. "I'm not sure if "Bob" is just out of shape or if he has a breathing problem. Do you have anything that might open up his airway?"

Hill cocked his head to the side and listed to "Bob" as he breathed. He brought his palm up to his forehead.

"How could I have missed that?" he said. "That man has asthma. Well, it's not part of my typical aid bag assortment, but since we sometimes treat the local nationals, I do have three asthma inhalers in the top pocket. Can you reach it or do I need to stop and take it off?"

"No, I can get it."

Morgan walked alongside Hill and pulled aside the Velcro enclosure. He reached inside and pulled out one of the inhalers. He then slid his fingers along the enclosure to reseal it.

"Okay," said Hill. "Give it to me and take "Luke." I'll walk with "Bob" and see that he's okay."

"Got it. Thanks."

"Thank you for noticing, man. I should have caught that."

"We all have our off days, right?" grinned Morgan, patting "Luke" encouragingly on the back.

They reached the dam in thirty-eight minutes after Lang decided to slow the pace only slightly. He scowled at "Bob" and "Luke" as the squad formed a perimeter near the canal but said nothing. He and Wagner went from man to man to check their condition. Lang then released Venneman and Caldwell to assess the dam and begin their work. As the engineers moved, Lang tapped "Luke," Morgan, and Nakayama on the shoulders, motioning for them to follow him.

The farmhouse was about one hundred meters from the dam across an open field. Morgan could just make out the simple dwelling in the growing light. He let his eyes roam across the property as they walked.

"There's probably not much point going right to the house, Sergeant Lang," suggested Morgan. "We should probably check the fields first."

"Why's that?"

"Farmers get up and start working before daylight."

"Really?" replied Lang, looking over his shoulder briefly at Morgan. "How do you know that bit of trivia?"

"My cousin owned a dairy farm in the town where I grew up. I spent a lot of time there. He and his hands were always up and working before dawn."

"Alright," said Lang, diverting to the left. "We'll check the fields first."

They found the farmer, a shrivelled middle-aged man, and his two sons, in the fields as Morgan had predicted, concealed at first by tall rows of barley. Prayer rugs were rolled near the rows. Lang waved at them in greeting as soon as they were in sight. They stood up and waved back, looking curiously at them. Morgan and Nakayama held back, letting Lang approach while they pulled security.

The conversation started out cordially enough but soured after only a minute. The farmer was not pleased with what Lang was telling him.

"We have just finished digging paths for the water to reach our crops," the farmer said through "Luke."

"I'm sorry about that," replied Lang. "It's causing health problems for us on our base over there." He pointed in the direction of the FOB.

"If you do this, our crops will die."

"We can help you," offered Lang. "We have people who can come out here and help you dig a well. They can also help you find other ways to better irrigate your crops." Lang produced a ticket from his pocket. "If you just hold onto this ticket, they will come out here and assist you next week. They are very skilled at such things."

"How do I know you are not lying?" challenged the farmer. "The last time Americans were here, they lied."

"This ticket also says that if we fail, we will compensate you financially for your loss. If we must, we will dig a tributary from the canal to your fields. Either way, your dam has to be destroyed today. It is hazardous to our soldiers' health. It is causing mice to populate in our base and making them sick."

The farmer frowned at Lang. He stared at the soldier and "Luke" silently for a long moment. At last, he said, "I will take your ticket. My sons are witnesses to what you have said today. We will await the arrival of your people."

" _Shukraan (_ Thank you)," said Lang. He shook hands with the farmer and turned away. "Let's go.

They were halfway back to the dam when they saw the rest of the patrol stand and jog away, the engineers unreeling a roll of detonation cord behind them. Lang signaled for his men to stop and get down. A minute later, the canal erupted. Lang looked back at Morgan, a rare smile on his lips.

"Alright, let's move on to the mosque."

Moving on was right. There was a hell of a lot of walking involved, at least for a group of soldiers from an armor unit who were more used to riding. Their way was completely unchallenged, the blowing of the dam having served as a perfect distraction to anyone in the area. Morgan wondered just how many people, hostile or otherwise, were now gathering at the farmer's residence to see what had happened.

After three kilometers of walking along the roads, an older man in a _dishdasha_ waved at them from a doorway and slowly emerged onto the street. He walked with a cane and with some difficulty. Lang and "Bob" approached him while the rest of the patrol spread out, taking security positions.

From what Morgan could overhear, the man was simply curious about the explosion he had overheard and was asking if Lang knew anything about it. Lang was truthful about it and told the man what had happened. The old man nodded and agreed that sometimes such things needed to be done. He said he knew the farmer and hoped the Americans' assistance team would be able to help him improve his crops. With a smile, he thanked Lang for the information and wished him well. The patrol continued on its way.

Morgan recognized the site of the mosque as they neared it. He had seen it on satellite photos downloaded by the intel officer the day before. That bit of information comforted him, at least. However, he was not at all at ease. The area through which they walked was about half rubble and completely so on his left side for a good fifty or sixty meters. It was a perfectlt open area for someone to engage them, he thought.

The other thing that bothered him was the sounds in the vicinity. There were none. None besides those of their own footsteps. He didn't like that at all. He felt a chill despite the growing heat of the day. He swept his eyes along the open area to his left again. Nothing. No people. He looked down at his feet. No tell-tale IED signs, but that didn't really mean much, either. His thumb, always on the safety switch of his M16, quivered. Something was coming. He was sure of it.

Movement to his left caught his eye as Lang called a halt to the patrol. Eighty meters or so away, he saw something in a crumbling window of a mud hut, just a shadow. Then he saw a silhouette in the doorway. The silhouette stepped out into the light. It was a child, a boy of perhaps nine or ten. The boy called out something in Arabic. Seconds later, other children appeared. They seemed to come from everywhere. And they were all coming toward the American patrol. Morgan allowed himself to breathe again.

They were at the mosque now. Lang began assigning areas of responsibility for security. Morgan's spot was at an intersection beyond the mosque. He knelt next to a brick wall where he could see down both ends of the street and could also look behind him. The wall also gave him good cover on his left side. Behind him, Nakayama and Griffin were talking to the children and handing out gifts. The sound of high-pitched laughter brought a grin to Morgan's face.

Morgan glanced to the right. There was no oncoming traffic or any people coming from that direction. He leaned out, exposing only part of his head, and took a look in the other direction. Also nothing. Good. He eased back. A hand clamped down on his right shoulder. Morgan jumped with fright and twisted his torso around, ready to raise his rifle to fight.

She was the most beautiful little girl Specialist Morgan had ever seen. Nine, maybe ten years old, she wore a bright purple dress and had a radiant smile. These accentuated her dark eyes and long, black hair which she wore in a braid. Her skin was a light brown, like a perfect tan. Her feet were bare. Her hand still on Morgan's shoulder, she chattered rapidly in Arabic.

" _Marhabaan, aljundiu. Kayf halikum? (_ Hello, soldier. How are you? _)"_

Morgan smiled back at her. He straightened his back slightly, using the movement as a distraction as he focused on what she had said, her simple words already pushing the limits on his knowledge of the language, especially at that speed. He thought for a few seconds. The girl's smile started to fade. Slowly, he responded.

" _Sabah alkhyr 'ayatuha alfatat aljamilatu. 'Sna fi sihat jayidatin. Kayf halikum? (_ Good morning, pretty girl. I am well. How are you? _)"_

The girl's smile reappeared. She clapped her hands and jumped in excitement. " _Aismi Safwaa. Mahw lak? (_ My name is Safwa. What is yours? _)"_

" _Aismi Danyal. (_ My name is Daniel _)"_ replied Morgan.

Forming his next statement carefully, Morgan smiled again and said, pointing to Nakayama, " _Hadha alrajul hunak ladayh hadiat lika. (_ That man over there has a present for you. _)"_

Safwa's jaw dropped. " _Hal hqa? (_ Really? _)"_ she asked.

" _Na'am,"_ said Morgan, offering her a piece of candy.

Her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm, Safwa took the sweet from his hand. " _Shukraan,"_ she chirped, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek before scampering off to Nakayama.

" _Afwan (_ You're welcome _),"_ whispered Morgan softly, leaning against the wall as he turned back to his position. Glancing down the street again, he shook his head and smiled to himself.

"Well, Daniel, you just got your first kiss from a pretty girl. Too bad she's a tiny waif in a wartorn country and you had to bribe her with a piece of candy to get it." Chuckling at his own joke, Morgan continued his vigil at the intersection.

The children's merriment was infectious and spread to several of the soldiers. Since they were unfamiliar with several of the toys in Nakayama's bag, Lang allowed several of the men to assist him with demonstrating the use of them. Morgan smirked as he glanced back in time to see Specialist Hill and Sergeant Major Wagner passing a Frisbee back and forth to each other. The children, laughing and cheering, quickly caught on and took great delight in the new toys.

Lang called an end to the recon ten minutes later. They formed up in two lines along either side of the street and began a more leisurely walk away from the mosque. Morgan was at the end of one column this time and made sure to keep an eye to the rear as he went. Even though he had enjoyed the brief experience with the Iraqi girl, he did not like the fact she had come up behind him without his noticing. His thumb still twitched on his rifle's safety.

They arrived at the small plantation after fifteen minutes. The front gate was closed but unlocked and they went straight inside They made a circuit through the plantation, checking each building. Passing by one, Morgan saw one outbuilding full of plastic fifty-five gallon drums, most with lids on top. One lid was askew. Opening the door, he was struck by the strong scent of vinegar. He eased the loose lid aside. The drum was loaded with cucumbers. Morgan smiled and resealed the drum. This was a pickle incubator. He continued working his part of the circuit. After another minute, the plantation was declared secure and most of them settled down to rest.

Morgan signalled to Lang that he would be standing by the pickle outbuilding. Lang nodded. As the specialist walked off, Lang grinned to himself. Since arriving at the 180th Armor in May, he had heard many things about the young man. Those who knew him well had primarily good things to say, though some said they doubted his tactical abilities.

Lang had heard of Morgan before in his previous unit, H Company of the 212th Infantry, a long range surveillance company of the Georgia National Guard. Many members of the company had gone to the same university as Morgan and had been present when he had been removed from the cadet leadership assessment training - or, as they called it at their school, the Pre-Camp - program. While they had not been close friends of his, they had all been angered by his removal due to the fact of his exemplary performance. "Political bullshit," many of them had said by way of explanation.

Now Lang watched the young specialist naturally moved to pull security while others in the patrol rested and checked their equipment. From what he had heard and seen, there was nothing he could identify that indicated any sort of tactical deficiency in the man's knowledge or actions. Other than being a support soldier now, he seemed to be a natural infantryman or, considering his home unit, armor crewman.

Lang had been an infantryman during his entire Army career, first as an officer and then, after a long break in service, as a noncommissioned officer. Prior to the Army, he had been in the Navy and had served as an instructor at the Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE) course. When he came to the Army and was told that, as an infantry officer, he must attend the Ranger course, he did so. He later told a friend that, compared to SERE, it was "more an annoyance than a challenge." Lang knew quality men when he saw them. Morgan was quality. Perhaps he should lose three or four kilos, but that was not a crime. There were others in the battalion far worse than he. So why was he still just a specialist? And why in the world was he not in a combat arms role?

His own personal care complete, Lang walked over to see to Morgan. The specialist was standing in the shade of the pickle building, his feet shoulder width apart. His stance was relatively at ease though his weapon was at the low ready. His eyes never stopped sweeping back and forth, up and down.

"What do you think of the mission so far?" inquired Lang, strolling up to him.

Not breaking from his lookout, Morgan replied, "Very good so far, though I did get the shit scared out of me back at the mosque."

Lang stood three meters in front of Morgan and smiled. "The girl in the purple dress."

Morgan's eyes focused on Lang briefly. His eyebrows rose. "You saw that?"

Lang chuckled. "Yeah. When I finished assigning security positions, I looked for a good spot for myself. I found a way into the building next to you and ended up at a window right above you. I saw her walking up to you and even had time to pull out my camera. I got some great candids of the two of you interacting. Nothing with your face, sadly, but you really made her happy. I got a perfect shot of her kissing your cheek, too."

Morgan blushed. "If you ever meet my parents, they'll demand to see it. They'll never believe I got a girl to kiss me." He smirked. "Even though she was only nine."

Lang laughed aloud. "If you're half as charming with adult women as you were with her, you won't have a problem."

This time Morgan chuckled, his eyes scanning over Lang's head as he spoke. "All I did with that little girl was say she was pretty, ask her name, and then say Nakayama had a gift for her."

"See? Just give the gift yourself and you're in."

"Heh, not that easy. I'm scared to death in front of females."

"Can't be," countered Lang. "I've seen you talking to the female soldiers."

"They're soldiers. And that's business. It's different. Besides, Specialist Morgan and Daniel Morgan are two different people."

"How do you mean?" Lang's face displayed his confusion.

"When we were at Fort Stewart, I told you about how I used to be the retention manager for the 212th Infantry Battalion, right?"

Lang nodded.

"While I was doing that job, I mastered the art of what I call "wearing the mask." At the time I was a corporal and Corporal Morgan had to do lots of public speaking and meeting with public officials and with families. It was not the sort of things an introverted person like Daniel Morgan wanted to do, but it was the job. So I treated it like an acting role. I created the role of Corporal Morgan. He was all capable, all knowing. If there was a problem, he could fix it. If you needed a presentation in front of a hundred people, he could do it. No problem. I could put on the act of being confident in all of those things because Corporal Morgan wasn't me. He was a facade.

"Now there are times when the mask slips, like when I'm around people I've known for a long time, like Captain Bunt or Sergeant Major Wagner. I bet you've even noticed a difference yourself over the time you've known me."

Lang considered the statement for a moment and nodded. "Yes, when I first met you, you did seem a bit arrogant and, over time, a lot more humble. I was quite surprised."

Morgan grinned, his eyes still moving, not really focusing on Lang. "That's right. The person you met the first time was Specialist Morgan. As you got to know me better, the mask slowly fell away and you were introduced to Daniel Morgan. The real me, Daniel Morgan, is a scaredy-cat who is terrified of all females and doesn't leave his apartment. He's never dated and, most likely, never will. He's that scared of people."

"But you don't seem scared out here," observed Lang.

"Are you kidding? I'm terrified. I have been every time. During that fight on the day of my first patrol, there was not a second that I didn't think I was about to die. I was mortified."

"But you keep going back outside the wire. Why?"

"Because that's where my friends are," declared Morgan flatly, his gaze settling on Lang for a second. "When a buddy asks something of you, you don't let them down."

"Even though you're scared?"

Morgan shrugged. "I suppose. Maybe that's the difference of it all. Between being afraid and being a coward. One makes you move away and the other makes you just move. I never knew which one I was. Now I know. I'm afraid and there are worse things than being afraid."

"Well said," stated Lang, nodding. "Now apply that to females and you've won it all."

Morgan laughed. "I still have to work on that one. At the moment, I have to honestly say I'm less afraid of the enemy and his bullets than I am of females."

Grinning, Lang asked with a chuckling snort, "Why?"

Morgan raised his rifle. "I know how to respond to bullets. They're no training regimens for dealing with females."

Lang doubled over. He put his hands on his knees, his laughter coming full-bodied. It took several seconds for him to stand upright again. When he did, he was still smiling.

"On that count, you are completely correct. I have a wife and four daughters and I can vouch for what you have just said word for word."

Morgan returned Lang's smile. A heartbeat later, it vanished. His eyes flashed to a point over Lang's head.

"Get down," Morgan said calmly, almost robotically.

Lang did not hesitate. He dropped to his knees and rolled to his left, coming up alongside Morgan. He rose, pivoting and raising his M4. Morgan was already firing single shots at a rooftop across the street from the plantation. Lang made out four armed men at a distance of roughly seventy meters. As his finger tightened on his trigger, one of the men in the middle crumpled, the RPG balanced on his shoulder falling down to the street below.

There was no cover nearby for the two soldiers to take. Their best bet was to keep shooting and move behind the pickle building. They both fired measured shots at the three remaining men while spreading apart, each going for their own end of the building. From behind them, they heard others from the patrol rushing to their aid. The men atop the building rained automatic fire down at them with their AK-47s.

Lang reached the concealment of the pickle building and braced his M4 on the side of it. He raised the carbine for an aimed shot but was driven back by a burst of fire from the rooftop. Cursing, he ducked back and took a breath. Hearing Morgan's rifle firing, he came up again. This time he got a man lined up in his sights. He increased the pressure on his trigger. The round fired just as he heard Morgan call out, "Reloading." Through his sights, he saw his target drop.

A squad automatic weapon (SAW) opened up behind the two men as Staff Sergeant Klaus joined the fight. The gunner at the top of the building dropped down, taking cover behind the bricks. He popped up again a few meters down and fired at Klaus, hitting the ground near the man. Klaus stood fully upright, the SAW at his shoulder and, with a violent curse, unleashed a long burst back at the gunner. The man disappeared again. Whether he had been hit or had run away, Klaus could not tell.

The last man on the rooftop pivoted, his rifle at his shoulder. He screeched a curse in Arabic as he trained the weapon on Klaus. Behind the machine gunner came the triple pop of an M4 carbine. The rooftop gunner stumbled. Placing a hand on the edge of the roof, he fought for balance and stood upright once more. The M4 popped twice. The gunner dropped out of sight. Klaus turned to see Sergeant Major Wagner lower his carbine. He nodded his thanks.

"Get to that rooftop and secure it," shouted Lang as he and Morgan came running from the pickle building. Klaus, Wagner, Nakayama, and Venneman followed them. They dashed through the front gate and along the street to the next building. Crashing through the front door, they cleared the first story and made their way to the second. It was also empty. They ran to the roof. Pausing at the door only briefly, Nakayama kicked it open and they poured through it.

Lang looked about and lowered his weapon seconds later. The rooftop was clear. The rest of the story was obvious. Near the edge of the roof, they saw the prone forms of three of the gunmen. Much closer to the door, a trail of blood showing his path from the edge to where he had eventually fallen, lay the other man. Sergeant Klaus had hit him after all and he had tried to run for it. The man had simply bled out before he could escape.

Lang produced his camera from a pocket. This would need to be photographed and reported. He directed the men to security positions, sending Wagner and Nakayama back to inform the others of what had happened, and got to work. Forty-five minutes later, after assuring the addled plantation owner he could simply claim the Americans had forced him to give them shelter, they departed for the FOB.

xxxxxxxxxx

01 June 1974

Knoxville, Tennessee

The Knoxville Civic Coliseum

The name Leon Russell did not ring a bell with Tristan or Penance, but they wanted to go to a concert and this was the only one playing. Once there, however, they realized they had heard quite a bit of his music on the radio before. They both remarked how often such a thing seemed to happen. The man actually had quite the eclectic repertoire, spanning the gamut from pop, country, rock, and folk, to gospel, bluegrass, rhythm and blues, folk rock, and blues rock.

There was a little bit of something for everybody. Just looking about the audience told the boys as much. They saw people dressed in evening wear as well as hippie attire present. One smiling man sitting nearby even offered a smoldering joint to Penance. He politely refused it, much to Tristan's amusement.

"You bummed that cigarette from a guy a while ago but you won't take a hit from a joint? What's up with that?" he asked over the music.

"I'm an addict already. I don't need anything that might make me slip back. Remember how hard it was for us to quit heroin?"

Tristan's smile slipped a bit as the memory of two years prior came back to him. He nodded and turned back to face the stage. Russell was singing _I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry._ He continued with _Am I That Easy to Forget, She Thinks I Still Care,_ and concluded with _In the Jailhouse Now._ The audience stood and saw him off the stage with thunderous applause. The boys slipped out before the crowds at the doors got too thick.

"So what now?" asked Tristan. "We don't really have anywhere to go."

"I'm tired," said Penance. "Let's just sit for a while."

They sauntered over to a grassy field away from the parking area and found a nice place near some trees. Penance sat near one of them. Thinking to try something new, Tristan dropped his backpack near his friend and sat behind him, leaning easily against his back. Penance straightened as if electrocuted and then slowly, almost reluctantly, sat back.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"I thought this would be a nice way to relax," said Tristan. Noticing Penance's rapid heartbeat through his back, he added, "I can stop if you want."

"No, it's alright. You can stay there. I just haven't done this with anyone in a while."

Sensing a story behind that statement, Tristan asked, "Someone you trusted?"

"Yeah. It's complicated."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not right now. She… maybe later, okay? Let's just sit for now."

"Alright."

They sat quietly for twenty minutes. Though it slowed, Penance's heart rate never did reach what Tristan would have considered a relaxed state. He signaled an end to the silence with a gentle lean backward.

"We should find a place to sleep tonight," he suggested.

"Right here is nice," said Tristan. "It's warm out. The stars are pretty. And we have all we need in our packs. We even have a little food in there."

"I guess that will be fine."

"We've done much worse before," Penance reminded him.

Tristan laughed. "Yeah, that's true."

"How about we head south tomorrow? Go back toward Georgia?"

Tristan shrugged. "That's fine with me. Any reason?"

"Kinda. Ever been to The Varsity in Atlanta?"

"No, never heard of it."

Penance leaned his head back until it rested against Tristan's. "As far as the food, it's forgettable. Not really that great. Passable, I guess is the word for it. A typical burger and hotdog place. But the milkshakes are another story. They only had chocolate and vanilla the last time I was there, but they were great. I want one."

"Travelling hundreds of kilometers just for milkshakes?"

"Can you think of a better reason?"

"Hah! Not really. Okay. Deal."

"It's settled then. Let's get some sleep."

xxxxxxxxxx

31 August 2005

Tal Afar, Iraq

The twelve days since the raid on the camp on the outskirts of Mahmudiyah had consisted of nothing more than constant movement and the occasional firefight with Farid's forces. Dublin had dubbed their campaign "city hopping" for its perpetual bouncing across the map of Iraq. It was a suitable name. In the past two weeks, they had hit four major cities as part of their pursuit.

The chase had been a drain for everyone involved. Ashton's insistence that Farid be taken down on the ground had eliminated the possibility of a purely aerial pursuit. Such surveillance was still an aid, of course, but he wanted ground forces available to act as soon as Farid's position was identified. Hence the vehicles and the constant driving.

First, on the twenty-first, they had found Farid in downtown Baghdad, holed up in an apartment building with his remaining men. A raid had been attempted but had gone wrong from the start. A massive firefight had broken out and, at the end of it, six of Farid's men lay dead, another three wounded, and another two captured. Adding insult to the injury, three of Ashton's own men were also wounded and one later died from his wounds. Two of the vehicles attached to him along with their crews were sent to Camp Victory to transport the prisoners and wounded to a medical facility. They caught up the next day.

Three days later, up north in the city of Tikrit, NextGen located Farid again. Once more, the raid went sour. Ashton was left with a wounded trooper, four dead jihadis, four more injured and captured, and a lot of cursing. Another attempt in Kirkuk three days after that fared no better, killing three jihadis and wounding another three, but adding one dead and two more injured troopers to the list. Ashton was down to eighteen men out of his original forty-five and he was running out of space and time. If Farid reached Syria, which he was sure now was his destination, he would disappear.

Now he sat across the table from an cross-looking American colonel, H.M. McManners, and a more temperamental-looking command sergeant major. Both, from their expressions, already disliked having a foreign operation, allied or not, in their area of operations, especially the night before they were about to kick off a major battle.

Ashton began with a gentle tone, his hands spread across the table. "Let me assure you, Colonel. I have no intention of interfering with your battle plans in any way. My team and I wish only to continue the pursuit of our target in this town."

"And you, Brigadier," began McManners, "need to understand that the presence of an allied special operations officer, especially one of flag rank, presents serious difficulties for me."

Ashton looked to his left quizzically at Dublin and then back at McManners. "I see no reason why it should."

"Protocol, for one, and the interaction of our forces _if_ I agree to allow your men into my battle space, for another."

Ashton brought his right hand into his chest to conceal its curling into a fist. He leaned forward. His tone was soft but firm. "Let me drop a lot of the nice boy attitudes while I tell you what I think of protocol, Colonel. Two days ago, my men were in Mosul hot on the heels of this man, Aadam el-Farid. We attacked his men with our little group and shot them up, forcing them to abandon their position. Seven of theirs died and another five were wounded. Another surrendered. One of my boys, Mitchell Hotchkins, was killed in that fight and another, Jeremiah Cantrell, lost his left eye.

"Farid is still out there, laughing at us for his part in the bombings in London last month. I promised Prime Minister Blair I would track him down, no matter where here was, and kill him. I intend to keep that promise, Colonel. Besides that, I still have the families of the thirty men who have died or been injured since we got here that I must console when I return. When I think of those people waiting for me to explain why their loved ones are gone or crippled then I realize how much shit such a thing like protocol actually is. Do you understand me, Colonel?"

McManners sat back in his seat, silent for a moment, and blinked. After several tense seconds, he replied, "Yes, sir, I understand. I have lost men myself. I can fully grasp the gravity of that."

"Good," stated Ashton unequivocally. "Then let's not mention that anymore." His expression lightened. "Now your concern over the interplay of our forces is completely understandable. I believe we can work that out between us through planning and communication."

Seeing a path for negotiation, McManners smiled. "Yes, sir. Let's talk about that."

xxxxxxxxxx

1 September 2005

Tal Afar, Iraq

Aadam Farid sat on a stool in the abandoned ramshackle apartment. He was horribly tired. The last two weeks had been dreadfully rough. Not only had the traveling be hard on him, so had the constant strain of Ashton's pursuit. Add to that the depletion of his ranks. He had seventy-three men with him when he had escaped the camp outside of Mahmudiyah. Including casualties from the four raids and desertions from the unfaithful, he was down by fifty.

At least he could count on the insurgent and civilian population of Tal Afar for concealment. With nearly two hundred thousand people, it would be easier to hide than the small town of Mahmudiyah. And Syria was not even one hundred kilometers away. He could practically smell it.

 _Let Ashton come. I'll be out of Iraq before long._

Farid stood and looked out of the apartment window. It was still dark and the early morning air was sweet. A good time for the first prayers of the day. He frowned. A strange sound came to his ears. Strange but familiar. He had heard similar sounds many times in his life. The treads of tanks over pavement. The Americans were coming. He seized his rifle and sabre and ran from the room, shouting to his still sleeping men.

xxxxxxxxxx

Farid's position had been narrowed down to a few blocks. It was up to the remaining fifteen men of NextGen to search for them and find the Arab before he escaped again. All in the middle of the upcoming American battle with a thousand insurgents.

Devon Sather walked slowly down the roadway, his sunglasses already over his eyes. With the death and injury of so many in the company, Sather now found himself in charge of four men. _Will wonders never cease?_ The small section carefully along the street, their eyes searching every rooftop, window, and corner for threats.

Sather paused at an open window. He glanced inside. A surprised man in a _keffiyeh_ looked back at him. Startled, the man raised an AK-47. Sather inserted his SA80 rifle through the window and triggered a burst. Hit in the face, the man toppled backward. Angry screams from another room answered the rifle fire.

Sather signaled his men to move forward while he pulled a grenade from his vest. Two men moved up to the doorway and waited. Sather glanced inside again. Three men had come into the room to investigate the noise. They were screaming in Arabic about the state of their comrade. The weapons in their hands made it obvious they were not friendlies. Sather pulled the pin on his grenade and counted to three. Tossing it through the window, he and his team dropped to the ground.

When the _carumph_ of the grenade went off, the two lead NextGen men jumped to their feet, kicked in the door, and dashed inside. Sather and the other two were right behind them. In seconds, they had cleared the small building. No one else remained.

"Are these his guys?" Sather asked Corporal Jameson as they searched the bodies.

"Nah," Jameson replied as he turned one of them over. "They're AQI (Al Qaeda in Iraq). We're probably going to run into a lot of these fuckers during our search."

"Damn," seethed Sather, walking toward the door. "Let's hope we brought enough ammo, then."

xxxxxxxxxx

1 September 2005

Reading, England

Pollack looked up from his workbench just as Steyn entered the room. He grinned at the South African and set down his tools. Leaning back in his creaky chair, he ran his hand through his red hair.

"Your timing is impeccable, Charles. That's the last one. I'm done."

Steyn laughed dryly as he continued to approach. "I swear, Carl, you're better than anyone could ever hope. Even with all the setbacks we've had over the past year, you've still come through ahead of schedule."

Steyn's eyes swept over the numerous devices stored in the massive warehouse. "This is miraculous. I don't even have all the trucks ready yet. It will take me another week to get them all on hand."

Smiling and folding his hands in his lap, Pollack replied, "I'm waiting on you now."

Steyn chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you are. No pressure, right?"

Pollack grinned. "Not on me. Not on you, either, really. We still have our timetable and you've built in enough flexibility to allow for surprises. Do you still have enough men to take care of this phase of the operation?"

Steyn leaned casually against the workbench. "Oh, yeah. We had some desertions, sure, but money talks. So does holding onto passports. We've still got plenty of people to do everything required for phase two. That won't be a problem. We just have to get these," he gestured to the devices, "where they need to be."

"Well, I will leave that coordination all to you, my friend," said Pollack. "My part, at least for now, is done. After all this work, all this extra work, I should say, I believe I shall go take a well deserved nap and leave you alone with your "no pressure" tasks."

Steyn chuckled again and slapped Pollack on the back as the man stood from his chair.

"You go do that, Carl. You've definitely earned a rest after all this. Leave the logistical shite up to me."

Shaking his head, Steyn pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the first of many numbers.

"Absolutely bloody miraculous," he commented aloud, still grinning.

xxxxxxxxxx

2 September 2005

Tal Afar, Iraq

Ashton stepped over a broken section of pavement as he led his section of men through the city. The remaining NextGen men were divided into three five-man sections, each with their own area to search. They kept the Americans informed of their movements as they traveled, mostly for safety reasons. They did not want to get shot up by allied forces. Thus far, the searches had been fruitless. They had only found AQI men, lots of them, and no trace of Farid.

The sun was lowering on their second day inside Tal Afar. On a normal day, Ashton would be preparing for Shabbat by now. This was no normal day. If London was any indication, hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives depended on the outcome of this mission. They could not stop to rest now.

"What are you thinking, boss?" asked Dublin over the team radio. "We've covered the entire zone we had planned on. Do you want to turn back or keep looking?"

Ashton shook his head, though he knew the motion could barely be seen by the men behind him. "No, let's look a little longer." Still walking as he surveyed the area around him, he chose a location at random and pointed. "See that neighborhood to our left? Let's check that out. We'll head back once we've cleared it."

xxxxxxxxxx

2 September 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"At last," said Tristan, his relief obvious as he spoke.

"What have you got?" asked Johnny, sitting in his usual spot next to him. "That's all gibberish to me."

"I've found the link between this computer and the others in Farid's network. I can trace them now."

"Really? Cool!"

"Yeah, it is," agreed Tristan. "Now let's see just what, and where, some of this other stuff is going on."

The boy Immortal's fingers flew across the keyboard for nearly a full minute, entering several lines of code. He stared at his work for a moment and continued for another ten minutes. Johnny sat quietly and left him to it. He had learned by now that, in situations like this, his friend worked best when his train of thought was not derailed.

"Okay," Tristan finally said. "I know you're aching to ask what I'm doing."

"You're damn right I am."

"I've written a small trace program. It will tell me at least the city where they're operating and tell me what kind of security is on their machines. Then I'll know if I can get into them and look around."

"Just the city?" Johnny asked. "Why not closer?"

"I'll admit that I'm afraid. If I try to ping them for too much, they might notice someone is messing around and shut down their computers. I don't want that. I decided just to try for a quick snapshot of information first. I can dig further after that, once I know whether I'm dealing with serious opponents or not."

"You mean someone as good as you or not." Johnny wasn't asking a question.

"Yeah, pretty much. If they're just average users, it will be easy. If they're more than that, I need to be careful."

"Well, Farid was more than the average user," Johnny reminded him, "and you smashed through his security rather easily."

Tristan smiled. "I still had to ask you how to spell " _Allahu akbar,"_ correctly in Arabic in order to open up that security protocol he had on the fake Quranic studies program."

"Teamwork, buddy. I'm just glad I was able to do more than sit here and be your cheerleader, for once, even if that's all it was. We still haven't found out what all the stuff in there fully means. All we truly have so far is a date."

"Yeah, but a date is huge. It's so much more than we had before."

xxxxxxxxxx

2 September 2005

Tal Afar, Iraq

The last twenty-four hours had not been kind to Aadam Farid and his two dozen men. From the moment they had attempted to abandon their apartment building, they had been driven through alleyways and empty shops. The pursuit and concurrent evasion was nonstop. The Americans were engaging AQI members throughout the city. Once, Farid's men had nearly run into a detachment of Ashton's NextGen men, as well. Only their last minute recognition of the different uniforms and equipment had saved them from the temptation of firing on the small group.

In order to avoid being confused for AQI and to identify each other more easily, Farid's men had all taken to wearing brown _keffiyehs_ on their heads. This, it seemed, was one color the AQI was not wearing. After a few hours, even that had proven in vain. The men had become intermixed with a fleeing group of AQI jihadis and been forced into a small group of gated homes. This would be fleeting protection from American tanks and artillery. Their only hope, at the moment, was to lay low and hope the Americans assumed they had been lost in the chase.

Being confined with twenty unknown and volatile men did not heighten Farid's spirits. The cramped conditions and the foul odor of forty-plus men added to his temper. He wanted to head east not sit in this overblown mud brick house and wait to be found by the sniffing Americans. The proximity of M1A1 tanks, however, gave him little choice.

The Arab knelt several meters from a window so as not to silhouette himself against it and tried to get some idea of what was happening outside. All he could see was the surrounding buildings, a small snatch of roadway, and a lot of smoke. As far as sounds, he had plenty of that. The clanking of American tank treads, the explosions of mortars, the fires of various rifles, and the shouts of men as they fought each other in one area or another. It was all far enough away that he knew them not to be a current threat, but it was drawing closer. He could feel it.

…And then he felt something far worse.

xxxxxxxxxx

" _Tha e faisg oirnn_ (He is near us)," Ashton said in Gaelic so only Dublin would comprehend.

" _An àiteigin_ (Somewhere)" agreed the Irishman. "Stay alert, boys," he said to the rest of the team. "Don't let the late hour dim your wits." Switching to another frequency, Dublin continued, "Bravo Six, this is Nightmare Seven. Join us at our position. Bring Bravo Two with you, over."

"Roger, Nightmare Seven, over," confirmed Major Burke.

The two Immortals continued toward the small neighborhood, their three armed compatriots behind them. All eyes searched for any sign of danger. Fifty meters ahead of them, a two-story mud brick house, walled and gated, rose before them.

" _Allahu akbar,"_ screamed a voice above them, just before a long burst of automatic rifle fire split the brief evening silence. Bullets punched into the pavement ten meters in front of the team. The five men scattered, taking whatever cover was available. As they moved, they began to receive fire from the other windows facing them.

"Bravo Six, this is Nightmare Six, we are taking fire from the building at the following grid," called Ashton over the radio as he shouted coordinates into the helmet microphone. "Unknown number of hostiles. Get here quickly and take up positions to the rear of the building. Cut off any escape, over." Scanning the area around the building, he keyed the radio again, "Bravo Two, take your team to the building at this grid." He called out another set of coordinates. "That's the building across the street from the target building. Set up suppressing fire with your machine gun from there. See if you can fire through their windows or onto their roof. Over."

"Roger, Nightmare Six," acknowledged Sather. "En route. Over."

Dublin raised his head to glance over the partial wall behind which he lay. Incoming fire forced him back down again. He rolled onto his back and reported to the others on his radio.

"They're on the roof, too. At least four of them, over."

"Got it," came Ashton's reply. To the rest of the team, he called, "Find cover where you can. There's not much we can do by ourselves. We have to wait for the others. Over."

Ashton looked to his right to check the positions of his other men. Sergeant Weatherby he knew was behind the wall with Dublin. They were relatively safe from the rifle fire there. Fifteen meters from him, Staff Sergeant Addison lay curled behind a pile of shattered bricks. Not the best cover given their position, but okay. Ten meters farther to his right, Corporal Nixon lay prone behind an abandoned Bongo truck. Five meters behind the truck stood a small mud hut. After a few seconds of studying his own position, Nixon crawled backward into the hut, keeping himself concealed from the enemy gunmen. Ashton nodded to himself. That was a better place than the truck.

"It's time we gave them some of their own medicine," suggested Ashton.

"You got it, boss," affirmed Dublin.

As one, the five men rose or rolled from their positions and began to return fire at the gated house. Instead of the random automatic bursts of their enemies, their fire was well-placed and precise. Such was the difference between amateurs and skilled professionals. A jihadi, bellowing curses at the men in Arabic as he fired down at them, shuddered as 5.56mm bullets punctured his chest from two angles beneath him. He slumped through the window, his torso hanging limply out of it. His AK-47 fell to the ground below. His body was pulled inside the building and another man replaced him in seconds, standing fully upright. The second man's bravado cost him his life immediately. Both of the NextGen shooters triggered their weapons again. Hit in the chest and throat, the second man collapsed on top of the first, twitching in his death throes.

Darren Dublin brought his rifle to his shoulder, pausing to aim just slightly longer, and pulled the trigger on the grenade launcher mounted underneath his SA80. He knelt behind the wall again as the 40mm grenade arced upward, sailing over the gate and landing in the center of the building's roof. With a _carumph,_ the grenade exploded, sending shards of white hot steel into the bodies of the men around it. Screams of terror and pain met the Irishman's ears.

The NextGen team's fire had a sobering effect on the jihadis in the building. There was a noticeable, though brief, reduction in their attack as they suffered the pains of the counter-engagement. When they opened up again a heartbeat later, it was with renewed fury. Multiple shouts of " _Allahu akbar_ " accompanied long bursts of automatic fire, at least one of them from a light machine gun. A new, terrifying sound also could be heard: the whoosh of an RPG in flight.

The first rocket-propelled grenade landed two meters in front of Dublin's wall, expending its explosive harmlessly into the ground. The shock of its explosion, though, sank the NextGen men's spirits as they huddled under cover from the incoming bullets.

To Ashton's right, Sergeant Addison screamed in pain. Ashton looked his way. Addison cradled his left hand to his chest as he curled into a ball behind his pile of bricks. Bullets were impacting all around him. Ashton mentally shook his head. The cover was just too small and the incoming fire from too many angles. Addison was going to be hit again if he stayed there much longer.

Checking his own position, Ashton crawled to his left two meters. There was plenty of room. He keyed his microphone.

"Addison, get over here to me. We'll cover you."

The other four rose again and fired, this time in burst mode for suppressing effect. They didn't worry so much about aiming their shots this time, only keeping the enemies' heads down so Addison could run. Sensing the lessening of enemy fire, Addison rose to all fours and dashed to his left. A burst of enemy fire hit the dirt behind him. He kept running.

Ashton heard the RPG an instant before it landed between him and the upright Addison. The airborne grenade impacted the ground five meters to Ashton's right and three meters in front of Addison. The hard-packed ground caused the force of the explosion to blow upward in a broad cone shape. Ashton rolled to his right side, a scream of agony escaping his lips as shrapnel shards sliced through his face, arms, and legs. He lay there for a moment, breathless from the pain, and fought to remain conscious.

When the ringing in his ears stopped and he could finally open his eyes, the Minoan turned over to his left side again. Addison's body lay in a ragged heap near him. Ashton lurched toward him.

"Damn it, no," he barked, seizing the drag handle on the back of Addison's body armor. Ignoring the firing coming in around him, he pulled the mutilated form behind cover.

"What's the word, boss?" asked Dublin, ignoring radio protocol.

Taking only a moment to examine the body, Ashton reported, "Addison's dead. The RPG landed right in front of him."

"And you?" Dublin asked unnecessarily.

"I'm fine," Ashton replied. His radio crackled with static.

"Nightmare Six, this is Bravo Six. We are one minute out, over."

"Good to hear, Bravo Six. We could use the help, over."

"So I hear. Would you like for us to relieve some of the pressure on you right away or wait, over?"

"Wait until darkness falls. Let your arrival be a complete surprise to them, Over."

"Roger that, Nightmare Six. They'll never know we're there until we start firing. Over."

"Thank you. Break. Bravo Two, what's your status, over?"

"We just found a good spot for the machine gun, Nightmare Six," Sather informed him. I'll let the two snipers choose a spot on the rooftop or thereabouts, over."

"Understood, Bravo Two. Nightmare Six, out."

The four NextGen men huddled behind their makeshift shelter and waited for nightfall. Alert for the possibility of the jihadis trying to flank them, they scanned the area constantly. Every two or three minutes, Dublin fired another grenade onto the roof. He was occasionally rewarded by the sound of cursing or dying men.

"And now," quipped Sergeant Weatherby, "we have to be thankful for the brigadier's obsession with preparedness and his insistence that we pack our NODs (night observation devices) even though our patrol plan said we'd only be out during daylight hours."

The others chuckled into their helmet mics. Other voices could be heard laughing, as well, since he had broadcasted his statement on the team's command frequency and not the one for the section alone. Ashton grinned. Let the men have their little joke. They needed to bleed off the accumulated tension of the fight somehow.

The Minoan looked up at the sky. The stars and waning moon would provide plenty of illumination for the night vision goggles they wore and, for those who had them, the night vision sights on their weapons. Not much could be said for the city's streetlights. Most of them were not functional or had been shot out.

While his men kept the jihadis busy, Ashton switched frequencies and murmured a rapid update of their situation to the American command center. When asked whether they needed assistance, he briefly considered the offer. He asked simply how long it would take their forces to arrive in the area if they were needed. Thirty minutes, they replied. He told them to hold off for now. Switching back to the team frequency, Ashton wondered if he had made the right decision or if he had just sentenced his remaining men to death.

xxxxxxxxxx

Farid stalked through the house, shouting encouragement and ascertaining the state of the men as they battled with Ashton's forces. His own mood was not good despite the words he spoke aloud to the fighters. At least eight of them were dead and several wounded. He sought out Faalih al-Salim, the apparent leader of the ragtag jihadis, and Abdul Haadi el-Zaher, his own lieutenant. He found them both on the second floor of the house.

"My friends," he began, "we must assemble some men and destroy this group of infidels quickly. There are only five of them right now. They have surely called for support. We must kill them before those reinforcements arrive."

Zaher nodded in instant agreement. Salim, on the other hand, waffled.

"We are safer inside this house than facing them out in the open, Aadam," Salim argued. "We are better off simply wearing them down with RPGs and rifle fire."

Farid shook his head. "You are not safer when they can send their own grenades through these very windows. They are skilled grenadiers and such a feat is nothing for them. And you have already seen their ability with the rifle when they return fire. You may eventually wear them down, true, but it will cost you many more men than if you attack them head on."

Salim was aghast. "You think a frontal attack against such men will be less costly than staying here?"

Again, Farid shook his head. Did this man know nothing of basic tactics? "You will have a frontal attack, yes, but you will also take them from the flank. Get them in a pincer movement while they are pinned down and they are finished."

Salim considered his suggestion. From his expression, Farid knew the man understood nothing of what he had said. He stared blankly at Farid for several agonizing seconds. Finally, with a shrug, he made a decision.

" _Insha'Allah_ (If Allah wills it) _,"_ he asserted with obviously feigned energy. Farid accepted it anyway.

"Good. Let us prepare the men." Farid raised his voice to be heard over the chatter of rifle fire. "Soldiers of Allah, may I have your attention, please?"

The heads of those not fighting turned in his direction. Some even stopped shooting to listen. Farid smiled. Even in the darkness of the room, he could sense their attention.

"Soldiers of Allah, I ask for volunteers to assemble to move outside to attack the group of infidels pinned down in front of our house. We have a chance to eliminate them now before they can get assistance from others. Who will go with me to destroy the infidels now?"

With a joyous shout, over a dozen men stood instantly. Several more, the walking wounded, slowly pulled themselves to their feet, as well. Farid could hear Zaher repeating his short speech down below. He smiled again. There would be more than enough men for the task.

The bullets began ripping into bodies a second before the sound of the machine gun could be heard. Thirty caliber rounds punched through men in line with the second story window. They fell screaming and writhing to the floor. The murderous fusilade continued until all those in line of sight of the window were either hit or had taken cover.

Farid lay on the floor, his teeth gritted tightly against the sudden pain. He held his hand to his left side, covering the spot where a bullet had creased a rib. Blood seeped freely between his fingers. He shut his eyes tightly as the overhead light came on. A jihadi stood in the doorway, staring agape at the carnage before him. Farid made out the ravaged body of Faalih al-Salim in the sudden brightness.

"Turn off that light, you fool," shouted Farid. "You're exposing us all to the enemy."

Explosions rocked the room a second later, emphasizing his statement. Farid rolled to the far side, as far from the danger as he could get, and hugged the wall. Behind him, he heard another burst of machine gun fire and the gasp of the unthinking jihadi as he slumped to the floor. Accompanying the sound of the machine gun, Farid could also hear the distinctive crack of a high-powered rifle. There was a sniper somewhere out there, too.

"Idiot!" grumbled Farid regarding the jihadi, rolling back to the doorway and rising to his knees. His hit the light switch and dropped down again. Bullets hit the wall above his head and followed him down. Only his roll back toward the far wall prevented his being hit. He stayed there until the enemy grenades stopped coming through the far windows. Even then, he did not move for another half minute.

Not daring to rise unless he made himself a target for the machine gunner across the street, Farid stayed on the floor. He stayed close to the wall to the room's exit, slipping out on his elbows and knees. He did not stand until he was concealed by the walls of the staircase beyond. Once there, he regained his feet and ran down the stairs, seething with rage.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I think we've given them a good introduction to our presence now, Nightmare Six, break," Major Burke reported. "Bravo Two got in a good salvo with his MG, also. Unknown number of casualties, over."

"Two down on the roof also, over," added the sniper team.

"Thank you very much," answered Ashton. "That should give them pause for a little while. Now we just have to figure out how to crack this nut. Over."

xxxxxxxxxx

2 September 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Tristan rested his chin in the palm of one hand while the fingers of his other tapped his desk. He was watching the cursor on his screen blink as one of his trace protocols ran. All he could do was wait…and think. He didn't like doing the former and had been doing a great deal of the latter lately.

"They're buying trucks," he whispered.

"What?" asked Johnny, broken from his own daydreams.

Tristan sat up straighter. "The notes on this computer said they were planning on buying eighteen-wheeler cargo trucks, lots, at least thirty-two of them."

"Well, that makes sense. They were building a lot of damn explosives. They need to carry them somehow."

"Yeah," said Tristan, putting his chin on his palm again. "But what I'm wondering is where they're going. That's the big question. What's their target?"

"We've been wondering that for over a year now."

"And what's so big that it would take that much explosive to blow it up?" Tristan asked the air.

The laptop beeped next to him. He typed a quick command to save the data the protocol had collected and shut down the program. Reaching to the side of the machine, he pulled the CAT-4 cable from its port, disconnecting it from the internet.

"The scan is done," he said. "Let's take a look at what if found."

"Alright," Johnny agreed, pulling his chair closer. Settling himself in, he opened Tristan's desk drawer and extracted the Scotch bottle and tumblers he had stashed there. "Time for a small celebration," he announced.

"Maybe or we mourn having nothing at all," Tristan warned. He brought up a display of the scan's findings and sat back. Accepting Johnny's offer of a glass, he sipped and eyed the screen.

There were over two dozen lines of information displayed for the boys to read. Each line consisted of three sets of numerical, alphanumeric, or alphabetic data. The first set, made up of a four-part number consisting of one to three digits per part with a period separating each part, was separated from the second set by a comma and a space. The second set was three alphanumeric characters followed by another three in the same format. Lastly, there was an alphabetic data set.

"What is all this?" asked Johnny.

"IP addresses, postal codes, and, if it could be identified, the types of security software on the computer," Tristan replied.

"IP address?"

"Yeah, internet protocol address; it's a unique string of numbers that identifies each computer. It's like a computer's name on the internet."

"And the next bit is where the computer is located and the last is whether it's defended or not," Johnny clarified.

"Right." Tristan pointed at the first line. "Look at this one. , LS1 1AZ, TCPView. This guy is somewhere, I don't know where, and is protected only by a program that lets him know if someone like me is connected to his computer. He has to have it running and be looking at it at the time to know that, though."

Johnny studied the postal code for a moment. "That's up in Leeds, I think," he said, leaning in for a closer look. "There are so many. Farid has a lot of people working with him."

"Yeah, this is bigger than we thought."

"This is scary," Jonny stated as they read further down the list. Seconds later, he leapt forward and pointed. "There," he nearly shouted, his finger hovering over a postal code. "HR4 7DD. That's Stirling Lines."

The boys stared fixedly at the line of data. As one, they drained their tumblers of Scotch.

"Holy shit," said Johnny, gasping from the fiery liquid. "You were right. It's someone on this base."

Tristan continued to read the information on the screen, his eyes on the end of the line. "Someone with excellent security on their computer, too," he added. "I won't be able to get through that easily, if I can at all."

Johnny set his glass back in the desk drawer. "Either way, we have to let Jack know. This is huge."

xxxxxxxxxx

3 September 2005

Tal Afar, Iraq

 _Five from Bravo Six, two from Bravo Two, three with me, and myself makes eleven. Can we take that house with only eleven men with Bravo Two's machine gun in support?_

Ashton lay on the ground, the body of Sergeant Adddison beside him, and contemplated his plan. There were multiple problems with it. He did not know how many hostiles were inside. He did not know the layout of the building. He did not even know the full complement of weaponry the enemy had. For all he knew, they had a dozen more RPGs and could take out his full team the moment they rose from their positions. Everything was guess work and a growing sense of dread that time was running out.

The slightest light of dawn was breaking now. The enemy had remained mostly silent after the machine gun and grenade attack on the house hours earlier. Only the occasional burst of rifle fire came from a window before the shooter ducked back behind a wall for cover. A meager attempt at suppression and little more. Doomed men waiting for the final assault.

The Minoan reviewed everything in his mind once more. During the night, the sniper team had broken down their position and relocated to where Ashton's team lay. They were now concealed behind the wall with Dublin and Weatherby. Burke's team had also abandoned their position and moved to the front of the building, taking up residence with Nixon in the mud hut. Everyone was now staged for a full-scale attack on the house. They would move one minute after Ashton gave the signal to Sather's team to open up with the machine gun.

With a nod, Ashton spoke a single word. "Execute," and waited. Two seconds later, Sather's team opened fire.

xxxxxxxxxx

Aadam Farid had just completed his morning prayers. He put on his sandals, slung his sabre behind his back, and picked up his rifle. The brown _keffiyeh,_ which by now seemed superfluous, he abandoned. He leaned against the wall of the first floor, listening to the rumble of his empty stomach. He watched the others around him pray to distract himself from his hunger and, worse, his thirst.

 _Thank you, oh mighty Allah, for this new day in your service,_ he thought.

The rattle of the machine gun broke his brief revery. His head snapped up to the second floor. The sound of pounding feet on the ceiling above was thunderous. So, too, was the clatter of AK-47s as they fired back at the British position.

 _It will do little good,_ he thought, _with the enemy being that far away. Besides, if I were a man like Ashton, I would likely only have it firing at us as a…_

Farid froze. And then stood quickly.

"It's a distraction," he yelled. "The infidels are coming. Ignore the machine gun and prepare for an attack on the house."

The remaining jihadis paid him little heed as they rushed up the stairs to answer the machine gun attack. Only his own men were attentive to him. Those around him rushed toward the house's entrances, shouting encouragement to each other as they ran. Farid looked Zaher in the eye, nodded, and made his own way to the front of the building while Zaher chose the rear entrance.

Farid had just made the threshold to the front room when the doorway was kicked inward. A small round object sailed through it. Farid ducked back, finding cover just as the grenade exploded. Farid heard his men scream in agony. A heartbeat later, an enemy soldier entered, his rifle at his shoulder and already firing as he moved to his left. Another soldier replaced him in the doorway and went right. Farid's men attempted to rise, opening up on full automatic, tracking the infidels as they moved. But moving targets are harder to hit.

Farid spun around the corner, his AK-47 at his hip and fired a long burst into the room. One of the soldiers, hit in the chest, was flung backward. Two others pivoted and returned fire. Farid ducked back behind the wall again, evading their fire. As he did, one of the four men coming to assist him from another room was cut down.

The infidels were spreading out through the house now. Farid and his three comrades fell back, firing as they backed away. They reached the stairway and ran up it, one by one, covering the others as they went. Farid reloaded as the last man in the group unleashed a long burst at the infidels.

"Go," yelled Farid to the last man. The man nodded and turned to up the stairs. He screamed and fell, a line of bullet holes appearing in his side. Farid cursed and fired again into the hallway. He then backed up the staircase, his eyes on the entryway. A soldier burst through it. Farid's rifle spoke a burst again. The soldier trembled and fell as four bullets struck him in a diagonal line from chest to shoulder. He fell back into the hallway out of sight. Farid continued backing up the stairs.

He breathed a temporary sigh of relief when he reached the second story. The enemy was coming, yes, but he had a moment to prepare for them. The Arab looked around him. Several of his men remained along with a few of the jihadis, those who had been smart enough not to try engaging the machine gunner across the street. He directed them to set up a defensive position at the top of the stairs. Oh, how he wished they had hand grenades or could use their few remaining RPGs inside, though that would be suicidal.

Four men assembled closely, kneeling at the top of the stairway, their rifles at their shoulders, and waited. From the diminished sounds of combat below, Farid guessed the infidels had managed to kill or incapacitate most of the men downstairs.

" _Sayakunun huna qaribana_ (They will be here soon)," he said to his men. " _Tahalaa bialshajaeat ya janudaa_ (Have courage, my soldiers)."

They did not wait long. A soldier, backing up the stairs as Farid had done, his rifle raised to his eye, fired as soon as he saw the waiting fighters. The waiting defenders opened up on him immediately. The soldier was driven down the stairs by the furious fire. A moment later, he and a second soldier appeared, both of them shooting up at the men. One of Farid's men crumpled against his comrade, temporarily distracting his fire as the dead man slipped down the staircase. The remaining two kept shooting, but the soldiers had already ducked back.

The third man was back in place when the two soldiers reappeared. The enemy fire clipped the ear of one of Farid's men and another round punched through his shoulder. He toppled back and was replaced by another man. Firing furiously, they cheered as they saw the right side of a soldier's face torn away. Shouts of " _Allahu akbar,"_ followed the retreating soldier as he pulled the body away by the foot.

" _Lan yasiluu 'iilayna abdana_ (They will never get to us) _,_ applauded one of the defenders, turning to face Farid, his expression aglow with victory.

Farid opened his mouth to warn the man to keep his attention on the staircase. He never got a chance to utter the first syllable. A burst of rifle fire entered the back of the man's skull and exited through this forehead, spraying blood and grey matter across the wall and ceiling.

The two men left on the staircase looked down again to see two men, one blond and one dark-haired, taking the place of the soldiers who had been there previously. The soldiers' rifles fired at nearly the same time, forcing the defenders back. The blond soldier continued to fire bursts their way while the other moved up the staircase. When he reached the landing of the U, he paused, pitching an object up at them in an underhand toss. He then dove back down the stairs. Farid ducked back into the adjoining room as the two distracted defenders were caught by the exploding grenade.

Farid felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking back, he saw five more of his men. _The last five?_ he wondered, glancing back to the entryway. Nodding toward the stairway, he led them that way. They could not let the invaders reach the second story.

Barreling back into the top landing, Farid fired a blind burst down the staircase. The dark-haired soldier who had thrown the grenade staggered back, the bullets nearly hitting him. Farid raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired again. Hit center chest, the dark-haired soldier gasped and slumped against the wall. Another burst cut across the man's knees. From this short distance, Farid knew it would do little good. This man was an Immortal. But it would slow him down. The dark-haired man screeched in pain and pulled himself down the stairs. Four soldiers bounded up them to replace him. At the lead was another Immortal. Blond. Farid scowled. Ashton.

Farid's men opened fire just as Ashton's men did the same. Several rounds chewed into Farid's right arm and shoulder. Two struck his rifle and ripped it from his grasp. Backing away from the onslaught of fire, the Arab sought the only method of escape; the staircase to the roof. Racing up the stairs, he could hear the screams of his men as, one by one, they died. He kept running.

Farid slammed the roof door behind him and stood there, his hands empty, and mentally daring the machine gun crew across the street to shoot him. Nothing happened. He smirked. Of course not. He was no threat to anyone. Not right now. Looking down at his right arm, he grimaced. That would be a problem. With his left hand, he reached around and pulled his Averian sabre, scabbard and all, from its place on his back. He waited.

Seconds later, an enemy soldier came crashing through the door. The blond man had an SA80 rifle to his shoulder, his finger at the trigger guard. His eyes found Farid instantly. The two men eyed each other.

"David Ashton," called Farid, a slight smile on his lips. "Put down your rifle and let us end this as two of our kind should." He held up his sheathed sabre and cocked his head to the side. "Hmm?"

xxxxxxxxxx

Sergeant Devon Sather lowered his binoculars. For the moment, he was a Watcher again and was about to happen was not for the eyes of normal people. He turned to the two men lying prone at the machine gun.

"Okay, guys," he said. "Take a breather and pull security in the back, will you? I'll take care of this for now."

"But, Sergeant," Corporal Jameson protested, "the brigadier is facing a guy with a sword."

"Yeah, and he has a rifle so what's the problem?" asked Sather. "He's a big boy. He can handle himself. Now go on. I've got this."

"Yes, Sergeant," answered Jameson, standing and picking up his rifle. As he and Corporal Loggins walked away, they were both obviously confused by the order they had received.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Nightmare Six to team, I'm taking care of this myself. Stay away. Out."

Ashton tapped a key to silence his microphone, shutting the roof door with a foot as he kept the rifle trained on the Arab. "That's fine with me, Farid," he replied.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to even the odds and remove that helmet and body armor, would you?" asked Farid, shaking out his right arm as he spoke.

Ashton slowly lowered the SA80 and, his eyes still on his opponent, shook his head. "No," he answered. He leaned the rifle against the doorway and reached back for the katana on his web gear. "Besides, I know you're already familiar with all of its weak points."

Faris shrugged and grinned. "I had to ask, of course."

"Of course," repeated Ashton, drawing his blade. He held it down at his side and waited for Farid to ready himself.

Shaking and twisting his arm, Farid tested the limb gingerly. He smiled again. "There. I believe I'm good now. Shall we?"

"I'm ready when you are."

"Excellent. I would very much like to be in Syria by the end of this day so let's do settle this quickly."

"I'm afraid your travel plans are going to be cut short."

"Oh, we'll shall see who is cut short, Ashton," Farid retorted glibly, drawing his sabre. Tossing the scabbard aside, he repeated, "We shall see."

Farid's moniker of _Zawbiea_ (Whirlwind) was well earned. He was blindingly fast. With a leap like a dancer, he attacked with his sabre, the long blade moving with amazing speed. Ashton stepped forward, his katana now gripped in both hands, and deflected the blade with the flat of his own as he passed the Arab. He spun, slashing across at neck level, and found nothing but air. Farid pivoted in a crouch and grinned at him.

"Very nice," complimented Farid, rising.

Farid approached again, slashing upward for a hip-to-shoulder strike. Ashton's katana met the sabre at hip level. The katana was held downward, in the perfect position to retaliate with a similar cut. Farid stepped forward, twisting his wrist around, using his sabre to lock the katana in place. He threw a straight punch at Ashton's nose. The Minoan lowered his head, letting the fist impact his helmet.

"Ah," hissed Farid, stepping back.

Ashton pressed forward, raising his katana and cutting downward toward Farid's left shoulder. Farid parried the attack, pushing the blade aside, and slid his own blade toward Ashton's face. Ashton's stepped back.

Farid jumped forward again, his blade a blur. It slipped under Ashton's katana, cutting across his left forearm and diagonally up his torso. Ashton staggered backward. The scales of his body armor rattled together, some of them fractured.

"Troublesome stuff," muttered Farid, dancing in once more. His bright blade whirled blindingly, finally coming down in a mighty overhead slash. Ashton raised in katana in the last instant. The two blades collided with a clash. Ashton twisted his katana around and struck upward with the tsuka (handle). It smashed into the Arab's chin, slamming his teeth together and knocking him back.

Ashton did not let up on the pressure as Farid stumbled back from the blow. The Arab's arms flailing to the side, he was defenseless against the diagonal slash that caught him from left shoulder to right hip. A second cut from behind as Ashton passed by him bit deeply into his hamstring muscles, forcing Farid to his knees with a gasp of pain. Stepping around to his side, Ashton swung his katana once more, connecting with the flat across Farid's wrist and loosing the Averian sabre from his grasp. The Arab felt the cold steel of the katana's tip under his chin. He looked up into Ashton's eyes.

"Very good," commented Farid with a wheeze as the full agony of his injuries hit him. "Very good indeed. Your reputation is well deserved, my noble enemy." He grinned again despite his pain.

Ashton's face remained expressionless. "What is your next target?" he asked flatly. "And when do you plan to hit it?"

"Heh, heh," chuckled Farid, struggling to remain upright. "So you don't know that yet, do you? Well, you may as well take my head now for I shall not be telling you. Kill me now, David Ashton, and let me die knowing that your nation shall soon be drowning in an ocean of blood."

His lips twitching slightly, Ashton removed his katana from Farid's chin. He lifted the blade high.

"As you wish," he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Sergeant, did you see that? I swear it was another electrical storm just like at that terrorist camp."

"Yeah, Jameson, I saw it," said Sather, lowering his binoculars as the two corporals came back into the room, their eyes as huge as saucers.

"What the hell is going on in the fucking country?"

"Strange things happen in the desert, you know? Mirages, sand storms, underground lakes, even electrical storms. It's just odd. You could write a book on it."

"I just might," said Jameson.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Two dead, Addison and Laramie, and four wounded, Tarin, Franks, Harris, and Glenn."

"Thank you, Darren," said Ashton softly. "Of course you left out the fifth." He smiled and pointed at the Irishman's bloodied pants.

"Yeah," grinned Dublin. "That will take some work explaining to the boys. I also left out the sixth." He indicated Ashton's own ravaged uniform.

"Another one we'll just ignore," commented Ashton. "Now, let's clear out of here. I'm sure the Americans will be glad to be rid of us in this city.

xxxxxxxxxx

4 September 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Staff Apartments

"Well, I'll be damned," stated Jack, amazed, "You found something definitive."

"You doubted him?" asked Johnny, sipping one of Jack's beers while ensconced again on his couch.

"I'll admit it, I did have my doubts. But this, my God, this is mind blowing. And right here in NextGen, of all places. I'm going to let Weatheral know in the morning, for sure."

The boys grinned at each other. "Maybe he won't be so grumpy about my keeping the laptop for so long," commented Tristan.

"Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that," said Jack. "He's pretty much on cloud nine right now."

"Why's that?" inquired Johnny.

"Sorry," said Jack. "I keep forgetting you boys aren't getting updates all the time. David Ashton killed Aadam Farid yesterday. And they took out or captured all of the men he and Hakim al-Ghamdi had assembled to come over here."

On the couch, Johnny's jaw dropped. Tristan, in mid-sip, choked on his beer. He began to cough.

"He did?" Tristan asked, still coughing. "That's great." Taking a deep breath, he added, "Now we just have to find the ones that are here in this country."

"Yeah," said Jack. "Somehow, I think that's going to be just as difficult as his search in Iraq."

xxxxxxxxxx

6 September 2005

FOB Saint Michael

"Excuse me, young specialist," asked a voice. "Might you be willing to spare a cigar for a weary traveller?"

Specialist Morgan looked up from his laptop. With disbelief in his eyes, he removed his feet from the folding chair in front of him and set the laptop computer on it. He took the cigar from his teeth and grinned, all thought of the email he was writing to his parents forgotten. David Ashton and Darren Dublin stood before him.

"Why, yes, sir. I certainly can." After shaking each man's hand, he said, "One moment." He ducked inside his tent and returned seconds later, humidor in hand.

"I hope you don't mind," said Ashton, "but I have asked Colonel Rey to join us for this little smokeout. Is that okay?"

"Like I'm going to refuse the battalion commander a spot on his own FOB," replied Morgan with a smile.

"That's nice to hear, Morgan," said Rey, stepping into the light. "I'd hate to think I wasn't welcome."

Morgan chuckled at the comment. Rey greeted Ashton and Dublin with a handshake. "Successful mission?" he asked.

"Quite so," said Ashton. "Very costly, but successful. And I have something for you, Colonel."

Rey looked at him quizzically. "Oh?"

Ashton stepped back a meter and reached behind one of the concrete barriers. He produced a long sabre in its scabbard. He held it horizontally in both hands.

"This," he said, "is the Averian sabre formerly owned by Aadam el-Farid. He carried this weapon for many years. You could say it was part of him. Now he is no longer in need of it. In light of the great sacrifices you and your men have made in helping us track him down, Colonel, I would like to present this sabre to you now."

Ashton held the weapon out to Rey. The colonel stared breathlessly at it for a moment and slowly reached for it. He took it gently from Ashton's hands. His eyes ran along the sabre from one end to the other, examining every detail in the dim light. He held it lightly as if it contained the very souls of his lost soldiers within it.

Looking up, his eyes misty, Colonel Rey croaked, "Thank you, Brigadier."

Ashton held up a finger. "I have one more present. An idea from one of my more morbid team members." He indicated Dublin as he said this. Looking at Morgan, he asked, "Specialist Morgan, may I borrow your laptop, please?"

"Yes, sir," Morgan replied immediately, stepping back and pulling the power supply from the machine. He handed the computer to Ashton. Producing a flash drive from his pocket, Ashton inserted it into a side port. He used the mouse pad to locate the file and opened it. Spinning the computer around, he showed the others the picture displayed there.

"I would also like to present to you as a gift the head of Aadam el-Farid."

xxxxxxxxxx

FINAL REPORT ON THE IMMORTAL, AADAM EL-FARID

SUBMITTED BY ALAWI AL-SAADE, WATCHER ID #084368

AT 0726 29 RAJAB 1426 (03 SEPTEMBER 2005 BY THE WESTERN CALENDAR), THE IMMORTAL, AADAM EL-FARID, WAS GRANTED MARTYRDOM IN HOLY COMBAT OF SWORDS BY THE IMMORTAL, DAVID ASHTON, IN THE CITY OF TAL A'FAR, IRAQ. SO ENDED THE 1,413 YEARS OF FARID'S LIFE AT THE HANDS OF THE INFIDEL, ASHTON. AADAM EL-FARID WILL NOW ENTER THE GATES OF HOLY PARADISE AS PROMISED TO ALL WHO DIE FIGHTING IN THE SERVICE OF ALMIGHTY ALLAH.

END OF REPORT.


	37. Unfulfilled Satisfactions

Author's Note: I am neither a hacker nor have I played one on television. Other than being able to do a little bit more with a computer than the average user - and that's mainly with the Microsoft Office Suite, I am just an average guy. I have friends who are at such a level of skill but that does not mean their abilities have rubbed off on me. While what I show Tristan doing in this chapter and in the earlier chapters is possible, whether it can be done the way I describe it is another story entirely.

"Spreadin rhymes like rashes

The satellites in flight -

How long before it crashes

Falling like avalanches - crumbled and crushed"

"T.R.I.C." - Otep

12 September 2005

Reading, England

Most people would never associate spreadsheets with terrorists. They were actually very useful tools regardless of one's profession. Charles Steyn tapped a few keys on his laptop and sat back to review his work. He smiled. Everything was lining up perfectly. With Pollack having completed his part ahead of schedule, he had plenty of time to get the rest in place. Nice.

Steyn studied the document further. There were numerous factors to consider for the upcoming hit. Timetables, number of trucks, time-to-target, load-bearing allowances, route planning, and so much more had to be part of the plan. Steyn chuckled to himself as he worked. When he had been a common soldier, he had scoffed at the officers above him as they huddled around maps and scribbled notes. How difficult could it be? he had thought. You just go where the enemy is and you kill him. Now Steyn was on the other side; he was the planner and he understood. It was much more than just staring at a map and moving pieces around on it. So much more.

The whole matter had been easier, in fact, when Farid had been here, but now he was in Iraq speeding Al-Ghamdi along with the recruiting drive. The men they were gathering would be needed to exploit the chaos caused by phase two. Until then, Steyn would focus on his planning role. His current question, would there be sufficient fuel to get the trucks from Reading to the target or would they need to refuel along the way? If so, where? And how many per site? They certainly couldn't all do so at one place. That would draw too much attention. Steyn poured a glass of whiskey and pondered his options.

xxxxxxxxxx

13 September 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"That's the last of it," pronounced Johnny, tapping the Scotch bottle against the top of Tristan's tumbler. "Enjoy it."

"Definitely," Tristan assured him.

"You earned it, my friend," said Johnny, raising his own glass. He drank half of its contents in one swallow, a sigh of contentment flowing from him.

"Should we get some more and continue drinking? Kind of a pre-celebration of David's return?"

With a shrug, Johnny set down his tumbler and stood. "Sure, why not. We'll get something a little less expensive. Go easier on David's wallet this time."

"Is there anything less expensive down there?"

"Hmmm…I don't know. Let's go see."

Johnny opened the door and the boys strolled into the hall. Tristan's room was third from the staircase landing, after Johnny's and Marc's. Paula's and Tally's were on the other side. Blake's room, the one recently vacated by Alyssa, was across from Tristan's. At the far end of the hallway, was Ashton's bedroom.

"I wonder how NextGen's investigation will fare now that Farid is dead. He was their main target," Jonny speculated aloud, making conversation.

"I'm not sure. Jack didn't say anything about any information they got from the prisoners."

"He wouldn't. You'd have to be on the inside to know that stuff."

"I'd like to be a fly on their wall sometimes," said Tristan, giggling. "I bet there's all kinds of cool stuff going on there."

"Maybe. Or a lot of drudgery. You never know until you're there."

"Jack never complains."

"He's probably too tired. He has to do his shift there and then spy on you the rest of the time, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that."

"Who knows? He might have made it easier on himself and just had cameras installed in your bedroom so he can do it from his apartment."

"That's creepy, Johnny."

"Hey, I'm not the Watcher. He is. Take it up with him." Johnny grinned at his little joke. "Big Brother Jack is watching you, Tristan. Remember that always."

"We're down here to get booze, not talk about voyeurs."

"You're right. Let's see what's in the cabinet."

They opened the liquor cabinet and surveyed its considerable contents. Johnny whistled.

"Looks like the cheapest thing we're going to find in here is this half-empty bottle of Macallan Fifteen," he declared.

"It will have to do, then. Let's go. Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm leaving five hundred pounds to cover the stuff we took," Johnny told him. "I don't steal from family."

"I hope I'll be able to do that kind of thing one day," Tristan said wistfully.

"Stick with me, little guy, and you will. Count on it."

Johnny put an arm around Tristan's shoulders and, the bottle in his other hand, they made their way back up the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxx

14 September 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"Welcome back, Brigadier. Sergeant Major." Colonel Harrington stood in the hallway as Ashton and Dublin approached.

"Thank you, Niles," said Ashton, shaking the colonel's hand and stepping into his office. "It was a long trip. Nothing compared to a deployment for the American or British armies, but certainly for one of our teams."

"But successful, at least," added the colonel.

"Yes," agreed Ashton, "at a heavy cost."

"True," said Harrington. "And, on that note, we have already reached out to all of the families of the fallen and injured men."

Ashton and Dublin both nodded. NextGen had a generous, some would say extremely so, survivor benefits policy for members who died in the line of duty. For those who were injured and rendered unable to continue service, the benefits were comparable. No one would be left destitute or alone. A price had already been paid via life or limb; now NextGen would help fill a part of that void.

"Have you been home yet, sir?" asked Harrington.

"No," Ashton answered, sitting behind his desk. "I'll go there soon. I wanted to check on things here first."

"Well, then I should tell you about one thing we have uncovered." Harrington shut Ashton's office door. Dublin looked quizzically at him, then at Ashton, and took a seat. Harrington sat in the chair next to the sergeant major.

"Your new "nephew," Tristan," began Harrington, "had a theory a while ago and asked to borrow the laptop you captured in Afghanistan last year."

"A theory?" asked Dublin.

"Yes, with multiple parts. He believed, first of all, there is a mole in NextGen feeding information to Farid and his people. He also believed he could use the laptop to find a way to trace the locations of the others in his organization, maybe even discover their target."

Ashton frowned. "A mole? We have suspected Farid was getting information somehow. We never thought it was someone one the inside, though. As far as the rest, our people have been through that laptop completely and found nothing. What hope would he have?"

Harrington chuckled and grinned. "Apparently, sir, we did not look at it from a child's, or should I say, a hacker's perspective. He found something. Several things, actually."

"Oh?" queried Dublin.

"First of all, he found a recurring date in Farid's documents, the twenty-fifth of September. He believes that is the strike date for the next phase of their operation It was coded as mathematical equations, always with the same solution of 25/9, and appearing in various forms. He believes they are dates, not math problems.

"Next, he was able to trace two dozen other computers on Farid's network. How many of them are significant, we don't know, but one of them does stand out. One of them is located right here on Stirling Lines."

Ashton and Dublin both stiffened in their seats. They glanced at each other and back to the colonel.

"Was he able to identify the computer's user?" asked Ashton.

Harrington shook his head. "No, he said the security on the computer was too strong for him to get into it and ID the user. All he could see was the IP address and the postal code. That was it."

"That's enough to cause concern, at least," said Ashton.

"What has been done since Tristan provided this information?" inquired Dublin.

"I've had our IT people run a scan on every computer on our network and pull the IP addresses and compare them to the one Tristan identified. None of them match. That tells us that whoever is sending the information is doing it from a personal computer."

"Smart," said Dublin. "Harder to trace that way."

"Right," agreed Harrington. "We've also tightened security in the TOC and we're running new, more in depth, background checks on all NextGen employees, just in case there was something we missed the last time. I've got Jack supervising that project."

"Why Jack?" asked Dublin.

"He was the one Tristan and Johnny first approached with the mole theory and the request to borrow the laptop. He's also the one who first told Sergeant Major Weatheral what they had found. When I tried to put Jack in charge of this, he wanted to refuse. Good chap. Jack said he might have made it all up to try to get such an assignment. I told him he'd go through the checks first and get the most strenuous we could give. He agreed to that. Once he was cleared, he got busy. He reports the progress to Alan and me each day. Sadly, so far we've not found anything that tells us who the mole is."

"Hmm…" began Ashton, considering what he had heard. "It's a start, at least, but still an obstacle we must overcome quickly. We can't continue to operate if we distrust everyone around us."

"Let us handle this, boss," suggested Dublin. "You get on home. The kids need to see their dad while there's still daylight. It's been a long time for them. We'll keep working this angle and let you know what we find out."

Ashton smiled at his sergeant major. "Thank you, Darren. I appreciate that."

xxxxxxxxxx

Three small, excited bodies collided into Ashton the moment he had shut the front door. He looked down into a trio of bright smiles welcoming him home. The exuberant children practically dragged him over to the couch and forced him to sit, the two older ones hopping into his lap. Only after several moments of laughter-filled jostling did they realize their predicament. They had run out of room.

"Oh, no," commented Tally. "There's no room for Marc." She tried to squeeze closer to make room for him. "We need a bigger lap."

Her brother climbed onto the couch and snuggled next to Ashton's side. He smiled at Tally as she turned to face him.

"It's okay," he chirped. "I can wait my turn."

Chuckling, Ashton put an arm around the small boy and pulled him closer to him. The child's smile grew. Across the room, observing it all, Alyssa whispered into Johnny's ear.

"The boy with the golden soul strikes again. Isn't he a darling?" Johnny grinned at her remark and glanced into his girlfriend's face. The teenage Immortal laughed softly and wrapped one arm around her shoulder, the glowing warmth he saw within her spreading to him.

"You adore that little guy, don't you?" he whispered in her ear.

"How can you not?" she replied. Jonny smiled again and nodded.

"Don't fill him up with too much love, guys," Johnny called out to the children. "The rest of us want to welcome him home, too."

"After us," demanded Tally lightly, her eyes meeting Johnny's. There was no confrontation in her expression, only playfulness and a smile. "There'll be plenty of time for everyone." After saying this, she kissed Ashton on the cheek and then slipped out of his lap to make room for Marc, taking his place on the couch.

"Is this where we take a number?" Alyssa looked over to see Asami next to her, Tristan at her side. She giggled at the question.

"Yeah. The kids got one through three. I think Johnny and I have number eighty-four or something like that. We'll be waiting a while."

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm sorry, David," Asami said softly into his ear. "I can't keep my eyes open anymore. I know there is more you need to do before you come to bed. We can catch up tomorrow."

"Are you sure?" He looked into her eyes with concern. She nodded, her dark hair falling over her lashes.

"It's fine. I've had a long day. You go ahead and do your work. Good night, dear." She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips before walking up the stairs. Ashton watched her slow ascent the entire way. The sway of her body, even in exhaustion, was mesmerizing to him.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it wasn't actually as late at it felt, only ten twenty-one. He shook his head. It had been a long day indeed. Even the kids were worn out. He grinned as he passed the sleeping form of Tristan sprawled on the couch. Still more used to the climate of the southern United States than England, even after a year, the boy was wearing long pajama pants and a light long-sleeved shirt while the rest of the household wore short sleeved clothing.

 _A little bit of work on the other sides of my life,_ he thought, _and then I'll go to bed myself._

The Minoan sat behind his desk and fired up his laptop. As it booted up, he poured a glass of Scotch and selected a cigar from the humidor. He punched in his login and password and reached for his cutter and lighter. A series of macros opened up his multiple email managers for him, allowing him time to properly tend to the cigar as the high volume of email was downloaded and sorted from the various accounts. A single soft beep signalled the completion of the process just as he blew out the first cloud of thick smoke.

"Mind if I watch you work?" asked a soft voice.

Ashton looked up to see a sleepy Tristan standing in his office doorway. The boy yawned as he waited for an answer. Ashton grinned and waved him over to him.

"I'm afraid it won't be very interesting to watch," Ashton said. "I'll mostly just be answering a lot of emails."

"From your other lives?"

Ashton nodded. "Yes, this is the other side of me. The corporate me."

Tristan approached and settled easily on Ashton's left knee. "That's exactly what I've always wondered about," he said. "I've seen you as a soldier. I've never seen the businessman."

Ashton chuckled as he sat forward. He put the cigar back between his teeth and patted the boy's back.

"Then you should probably see me in a boardroom more than behind a computer," he suggested. "It would likely be more informative."

"Do you go to them often?"

"Not very. I can mostly handle things from here. Sometimes I need to do things in person, though. I'll take you with me next time, if you like."

"Okay," Tristan agreed, leaning back onto Ashton's shoulder. The Minoan wrapped an arm lightly around the boy's abdomen and reached for his mouse. He turned his head to exhale a puff of smoke away from the boy's face.

Tristan watched him go through emails at a rapid pace, reading with such speed that the boy could barely keep up. Most of Ashton's replies, if he responded at all, were very short, often just a few words. Rarely did he hurriedly type out several sentences, even more amazing since he did it with one hand while the other arm remained curled around Tristan's body. Many of the messages had sizeable attachments. These Ashton saved into folders for later. He had too much at the moment to bother with reading those, too. In thirty minutes, he had cleared away nearly one hundred messages.

"You're very fast," Tristan commented dreamily. He sounded like he was half asleep.

"I have to be. The volume is too high to spend a lot of time on each one. I have learned to read and type very quickly."

Ashton opened another message. Once more, he read quickly. This email had a chart embedded in its body. He scrolled down to review the information.

"What's this?" Tristan asked, still sleepy.

"Shipping data. One of my logistics companies is sending some trucks through the Channel Tunnel next week. This is just some data for me to review. No big deal."

"How much stuff are they sending?"

"Quite a bit. Thirty-two trucks. We'll have to contract the entire train."

"Thirty-two?" Tristan repeated, sitting upright.

"Yes, why?"

"Can I do something?" Tristan asked.

"Sure."

The boy leaned forward. Ashton had to release his light grip on him to allow him to do so. Tristan first reached out for Ashton's tumbler of Scotch and took a healthy swallow from it. Gasping, he shook his head and sat up a little straighter. He then took Ashton's mouse and opened a new email message. Clicking inside the body of the message, he began to type. He leaned slightly to the left so Ashton could see what he wrote.

Tristan: Don't say anything. We don't know who is listening.

Reaching around Tristan, to type a reply, Ashton entered one word.

Ashton: Okay.

Tristan continued.

Tristan: Johnny and I have found some things on Farid's computer.

Ashton: Yes, Colonel Harrington told me you discovered a date.

Tristan: Not just that. We found a lot of economic data.

Ashton: Economic data?

Tristan: Yeah. We thought it might have been ignored since it was mixed in with a lot of religious stuff.

Ashton: Possibly.

Tristan: When we went through it, it looked like Farid's guys were going to buy a lot of trucks. At least thirty-two of them.

Ashton: Shit!

Tristan: Yeah. Do you think maybe they're going to hit the Channel Tunnel next?

Ashton: Well, I would want to look at the economic data to be sure, but it sounds feasible.

Before he died, Farid said he would be happy knowing the country would "be drowning in an ocean of blood." Blowing the Chunnel certainly fits.

Tristan: Let's go up to my room.

Tristan closed the email message, wiping out all evidence of their conversation. Tristan scooted out of Ashton's lap while the Minoan drained his tumbler of Scotch and tossed his cigar in the ashtray. They stood and walked up the staircase to the boy's bedroom.

Closing the door to the room, Ashton waited while Tristan inserted a thumb drive into his laptop, typed in a password to decrypt it, and pulled up the folder containing Farid's documents.

"I'm surprised Jack let you keep that," he whispered.

"I didn't tell him," Tristan replied in an undertone, grinning. "I didn't even tell Johnny and I told him everything else." Ashton smiled and shook his head.

Pointing at the screen, Tristan stood from the chair to make way for Ashton. The Minoan took his place. Tristan resumed his spot on Ashton's knee and indicated the first file he should open. He also pointed to a text editor on the desktop. Ashton opened that, as well. They sat silently as Ashton read. He went through the thirty-four pages rapidly before going to the text editor.

Ashton: Next?

Tristan took the mouse and scrolled through the multitude of religious tracts until he found the next file. He opened it and leaned back. They continued in this manner for ninety minutes, opening files and Ashton quietly reading. Finally, Ashton went back to the editor. He sat in pensive silence for a full minute before beginning to type.

Ashton: No one document says it itself, of course, but when you amalgamate the data, you could easily extract the economic impact of damaging or destroying the Chunnel. I think you are right. That is what he was studying. The big question we have to ask, though, is whether that is still their target. This information is a year old. How do we confirm it?

Tristan read the response several times, carefully considering his reply.

Tristan: I think the best way is for me to try tapping into one or more of the computers in his network, one of those I identified earlier. If I can get in there and find similar information, it might tell us what we need to know.

Ashton: Can you do it without being detected?

Tristan: I don't know. Maybe not from this computer. I might need to use of those at NextGen.

Ashton: That won't be a problem.

Tristan: When?

Ashton: Tomorrow or the next day. Give me some time to set it up.

Tristan: Okay. Is it bedtime yet?

Ashton: I think so. This is significant progress for one night. Thank you, Tristan.

Tristan: You're welcome.

Tristan closed the editor and leaned into Ashton's chest, sighing with exhaustion. "Good night, David," he whispered.

"Good night, little one," Ashton replied into his ear, giving him a gentle hug.

xxxxxxxxxx

16 September 2005

Reading, England

Steyn ended the call and set the cell phone back on the table. He stared at the device, frowning. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he reached for his whiskey bottle and poured until his glass was full. He brought the glass to his lips with care and drained it in two gulps. Only after setting the empty vessel back on the table did he speak.

"Goddammit," he howled.

"That bad?" asked Pollack, seated across from him.

"Aadam is dead," Steyn wheezed through the liquor. "Killed in Iraq."

"Ashton?" Pollack inquired. Steyn nodded. "I think I'll help myself to some of that, if you don't mind."

Steyn waved a hand at the bottle. "Help yourself."

Pollack poured himself a healthy measure of the brown liquid. Swallowing half of it at once, he looked at Steyn over the glass. "So what now?" he asked.

"We continue on," said Steyn. "Just as before."

"Without Aadam?"

"That's just the thing," replied Steyn, turning in his seat and retrieving another glass from the counter. He filled it, drank it down, and refilled it. "Aadam prepared us for this."

"He did? How?"

Steyn held up the notebook Farid had left behind. "This." He waved it back and forth. "I've been studying this book since Aadam left. This little jewel and this laptop have everything that was in Aadam's mind. He knew going to Iraq was a risk. That's why he passed on the notebook, which had all the codes to get into the bank accounts and the phone numbers to contact his minions and his higher-ups. He left it just in case he didn't come back. You see? We're his backup plan."

Pollack emptied his glass and smiled. "He always had a contingency."

"Exactly. We continue on. There won't be a phase three to the operation, but we can make it one hell of a phase two."

xxxxxxxxxx

17 September 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

Alan Weatheral sat next to Tristan, sipping coffee, as the boy prepared to work. He faced the opposite direction, into the TOC, as he usually did and regarded the scant number of personnel and visitors present; Brigadier Ashton, Colonel Harrington, Sergeant Major Dublin, Johnny Fairbanks, Sergeant Jack Connelly, Sergeant Devon Sather, and Sergeant Andrea Cramer. All others had been banished for the room prior to Tristan's arrival due to the ongoing security concerns.

Weatheral swivelled in his chair and observed Tristan's progress, copied on the large monitor at the head of the room. Most of it was gibberish to him, just of lot of symbols and whatnot.

"How much longer until you're ready, Tristan?" he asked.

"A few more minutes. I've finished installing all the software I'll need to strengthen our security and mask our location. I'm just doing a few things to hopefully make it easier for me to get into their computers without being detected.

"I have to assume the people I'm trying to tap are at least as good as I am, if not better. If I don't, I might make stupid mistakes by being overconfident. If they're actually better than me, well, then this might be pointless anyway. I learned from a hacker named R1ghte0us. He was very good and I eventually became better than him. That doesn't mean I'm the best there is, though."

Tristan stopped typing and leaned back in his chair. "Okay," he said. "I'm ready."

"Alright," grunted Weatheral. "How do you want to do this?"

"We'll just start from the top of the list, I guess," replied Tristan with a sigh. "I can't think of a better way."

"May I offer a suggestion?" offered Cramer.

Tristan turned to face her. "Sure."

"The last time we found one of Farid's safehouses, it was in Enfield, not far from London. Why don't we start with the postal codes closest to London and work outward from there?"

Tristan shrugged. "Works for me. Johnny, would you give me some pointers on sorting these?"

Two minutes later, the boys had a new list prepared and displayed on the secondary monitor at the front of the TOC. Tristan entered the first IP address into his security-cracking program and hunched his shoulders.

"Okay," he said in a softer tone. "Let's see what we have here."

The first computer was located in Knightbridge in the center of London. The specifics of its security popped up on the central monitor. Tristan laughed.

"This guy has no security at all. I'm already in," he said. "Now let's just hope he's not up at three o'clock in the morning looking at his computer."

The room was silent as the desktop of the other computer was remotely displayed on the central monitor. Tristan went first to the main documents folder and searched a few of the files there. Seeing nothing that suited him, he opened the email manager. It asked him for initial setup information. Tristan scoffed aloud.

"This asshole uses webmail," Tristan cursed.

"Can you see which one he uses?" asked Johnny.

"Just a minute. Let me check his browsing history." Tristan opened a browser. "Heh, he uses Internet Explorer and, oh, my, look at all that history. He never clears his history at all. Looks like he uses Hotmail. Now the question is whether we can figure out what his username and password are."

"That could be a bit harder," commented Sather.

"Maybe," agreed Tristan. "But sometimes people get lazy. Let's see." He dragged the mouse over to the Tools menu and clicked through several options, finally pulling up the password manager. It was empty.

"Nope," Tristan said finally. "Some people let their browsers store their logins and passwords so they can get into webmail faster. Looks like this guy didn't do that."

"What do you want to do now?" Harrington inquired.

"Well, I could either keep looking around in this computer and hope I find something to help me log into his Hotmail account or I could move onto the next computer on the list. Which would you prefer?"

"Move on, Tristan," said Ashton. "We can come back here if we must."

"Okay." Tristan closed all of the open windows on the screen and shut down the connection to the computer. He entered the next IP address, this one for Bromley. Once more, the security information came up on the monitor.

"This one will be a little harder," said Tristan, tapping a few keys. "But not much. He's using a program that became obsolete about two years ago. I should be able to get through it…now. I'm in."

This time, Tristan went straight to the user's email manager. "Are all of these people webmail users?" Tristan wondered as another setup request appeared.

"Perhaps they think that is more secure," wondered Weatheral.

"They might," said Tristan, "but if they're using something like Hotmail or Yahoo, it's really not. Given enough time, I can get into those. Oooh, look. This guy uses his password manager to store his Yahoo password. Let's take a look at his email, shall we?"

"Whoa!" exclaimed Johnny as a listing of unread emails populated the screen.

"Oh, my!" commented Cramer, reading the subject lines.

"Looks like our boy is into both Muslim doctrine and bestiality," stated Sather from the back of the room. "I wonder what Muhammed would say about that."

"Not much," scoffed Johnny.

Ashton's eyes ran along the list of senders. He ignored the pornographic and religious emails. "Tristan, would you open one of the messages from Richard Bay, please?"

Tristan clicked an email from several weeks earlier and expanded it for all of them to see.

Nashat,

I have two trucks ready for you and Abdul to test drive. Contact Herman at Hopper Logistics at 020 7946 0517 to set up a time to meet. Let me know if the trucks are satisfactory.

They also have a selection of cargo trailers. Inspect a few of them and get back with me with details.

Richard.

"Rather bland," commented Dublin after reading the message.

"I wouldn't expect him to say much in an unencrypted communication," said Ashton. "I think Tristan would be more interested in the header information anyway."

"You're right about that," confirmed Tristan, digging further into the email. An email's header information contains a voluminous amount of data about the sender of the email and the route the email took to reach the recipient. "Give me a minute or two."

"I've got something on Hopper Logistics," announced Sergeant Cramer. "Three weeks ago, the company sold two of its trucks and two trailers to Victoria Transport Limited. The licenses of the drivers, Nashat al-Omar and Abdul al-Hamad, both checked out as being certified for that type of vehicle. The payment for the vehicles was handled by electronic transfer and a lawyer, Douglas Caspar, was present to take care of all the paperwork. Omar and Hamad drove off with the vehicles and trailers as soon as the payment was confirmed as received."

"Douglas Caspar?" repeated Ashton. "You're sure?"

Cramer looked at her screen again. "Yes, sir," she confirmed. Ashton came over to see for himself.

"Do you know him?" asked Harrington.

"Yes," frowned Ashton. "He's a solicitor in West End. A good one, obviously, or he couldn't afford to rent office space in such a place. What I want to know is why he's doing such menial tasks as the transfer of vehicles from company to company. It's clearly more than that."

"How much do you want to bet he was involved with every truck they've purchased over the last month?" Dublin challenged.

"I think you're right, Darren," Ashton replied, his eyes still on Cramer's monitor.

"Argh," growled Tristan. "This header information is useless. All the sender information is from the Netherlands. They guy must have been using a VPN (virtual private network) or other protocols to mask his location."

Johnny sat up. "That reminds me. There was a weird postal code on our list. I thought I just didn't recognize it so we put it at the end. What's the last one?" He was pulling up a search engine on the computer in front of him and not looking at the other monitors.

"6832 AM," answered Tristan.

"Ah, that's an Amsterdam postcode. Also the Netherlands. That's probably the head of the snake." Johnny punched a key to bring the display onto the tertiary display at the front of the room.

"Can you get through all the noise and find the real location?" Weatheral asked Tristan.

"Maybe, but it would take a long time. There is a lot of tough security on that computer and it's already four o'clock. We should probably keep looking at some of the other computers."

"Wait a minute," said Johnny, holding up his hand. "Look at the last IP address and postal code and then the fifth one from the bottom."

Tristan stared at the central monitor. So, too, did everyone else.

"Do you see it, Tristan?" asked Johnny.

"Yeah, I do. Do you see it, everyone?"

, RG1 8NA.

…

, 6832 AM.

"Those are both Dutch IP addresses?" queried Harrington.

Tristan punched them both into an IP address search engine. "Yes, they are."

"That's odd," said Cramer. The first postcode is for Reading, I think, not the Netherlands."

Tristan searched the postal code. "Yeah, you're right."

"Weird," said Johnny.

"Could be a sub-par VPN they're using on the Reading site," Tristan suggested.

"Is that site online right now?" asked Ashton. "Can you get into it right now?"

Tristan entered the IP address into his program. "Give me a few minutes. I have to identify the VPN and see if I can identify the real IP address. The one we see on the screen is a fake. One moment."

"Is there any hope of that?" asked Dublin.

"Sometimes. Some VPNs keep logs and some don't. Let's just wait and see."

The central display showed everything Tristan was doing. A brief history of the IP address's activity came up on the screen.

"Oh, look here," said Tristan with glee. He highlighted an item with his mouse. "He downloaded something here. When he did that, it bypassed the VPN and showed his real IP address. It's . Okay, let me see if I can get into this one. This guy has better security than the last one so it might take me awhile."

As Tristan worked, Sergeant Cramer turned to Ashton. "Brigadier, I have a question. What made you think to have Tristan open the email from Richard Bay on that computer from earlier?"

Ashton blinked and smiled. "That was a hunch. We know that Charles Steyn, a South African, is working with Farid. Richard's Bay is a city in South Africa. I thought it was worth trying."

Johnny spun around in his swivel chair to face the rest of the TOC personnel. "There goes David and his Holmesian level of trivial knowledge again. You all should really get him and Darren to tell you about Arthur Doyle sometime. It's a real hoot."

"Pardon me while I look for something to throw at the boy," said Dublin as the rest of the room chuckled at his and Ashton's expense.

"So what's all this about?" inquired Harrington, still laughing.

"Johnny is thoroughly convinced," replied Dublin, chucking a pen toward Johnny's head, "that Sherlock Holmes is an amalgam of David and me. I don't see it myself."

"Nor do I," agreed Ashton.

"Oh, come on," countered Johnny. "The voluminous knowledge on everything." He pointed at Ashton. "The master of disguise." A finger waggle at Dublin this time. "Staying up at odd hours to research strange topics of interest." He looked at Ashton accusingly again. "And what about disappearing for no apparent reason to go to weird parts of the world just because it seemed entertaining at the time." He glared at Dublin. "Hmm? Any comments from the peanut gallery on that?"

"Coincidence," replied Ashton.

"Oh, posh," huffed Johnny. "You don't even believe in such things. If we're going to play that game, let me add more evidence to the pile."

"Yes, please," grinned Cramer. "This is fun."

"Oh, don't give the boy an audience," retorted Ashton. "You'll only encourage him."

Johnny stood, smiling. "What else do we have to do right now? And it's too late anyhow. Thank you, my dear," he said, bowing to Cramer.

"Let's start with Darren over here." Johnny added a touch of the theatrical by counting on his fingers. "Storing his bills on the fireplace mantel with a dagger to keep them in place, beekeeping, undeterrable once properly motivated, messy except for the things he cares about, and he abhors blackmail and bullying."

"Do you still keep bees, Darren?" asked Ashton.

"Sometimes," Dublin said, shrugging. "I just started back into it a while ago. It's relaxing."

"Now it's your turn, David." Johnny turned to face the brigadier. He closed his five fingers and started again. "Playing the violin, and the piano, I might add, depressed if he's not intellectually stimulated - need I mention your other businesses interests and your late nights working at them, observant to a fault, pays attention to personal cleanliness, and gets mad when he's interrupted in something that interests him."

Johnny closed his fingers and swivelled his head between the two men. Still grinning, he added, "I could go on with both of you, you know. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle got to know both of you quite well over the years but I know you both even better." He put his hands on his hips in a triumphant pose. "Admit it, guys, Sherlock Holmes is the two of you combined."

"Bah! I never kept my tobacco in a shoe," Ashton contested.

"But you smoked a pipe constantly," Johnny reiterated with a smile. "And before you say it, Darren, you always smelled of chemicals because of your constant experiments." Dublin's jaw opened and shut like a fish out of water.

"All we're missing is a magnifying glass and a deerstalker hat," chimed Cramer.

Ashton waved a dismissive hand. "Doyle never described Holmes as wearing such a thing."

"You've read the stories, sir?" asked Harrington.

"Of course," replied Ashton. "He was a friend so naturally I read them. The character was too fashionably aware, though, to make such a faux-pas as to wear a deerstalker in Victorian England. The only thing ever mentioned in the stories was his wearing a close-fitting cloth cap. The deerstalker first appeared in an illustration accompanying one of the stories later on." Ashton's gaze diverted to Sather momentarily. "What are you doing now, Sergeant Sather?"

Sather looked up from a notepad where he had been furiously scribbling. He grinned almost sheepishly. "I had to switch to my other job for a moment, boss. I am your Watcher, after all, and there is absolutely nothing in your chronicles, or Dublin's, about either of you having known Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This whole conversation is gold for people like us."

Ashton rolled his eyes and waved his hand again. "Carry on," he declared.

"I'm in," announced Tristan from the front of the room.

"At bloody last," said Dublin.

"Yeah," breathed Tristan. "It was hard. This guy had some good security set up on his machine. It looks like it hasn't been maintained in a while, though." Tristan glanced at the clock at the bottom of his screen. "It's four thirty-nine. We need to hurry now. Who knows when people will start waking up?"

"Alright," said Weatheral, patting the boy's shoulder. "There's a good chance this is one of the ringleaders. All we need is some indication of the target, maybe some confirmation of the date, as well. That's all and we're out."

"Yes, sir," whispered Tristan, opening Microsoft Outlook to look at the email traffic. No one corrected him on his minor slip-up regarding military courtesy. "Here's an email from Nashat al-Omar." He opened it. "Okay. Just confirming purchase of the trucks. Oh, they're doing some kind of modification to the trailers. That's odd."

"Possibly to make scans of them more difficult?" offered Weatheral.

"Maybe," said Tristan, closing the message. He went to the Sent folder and opened several of the emails. "Looks like a lot of talk about the trucks and routes, but no mention of the actual destination."

"The routes help," stated Dublin. "They're heading south. That's toward the Chunnel, at least."

"Yeah, but they could be going elsewhere, too," countered Tristan. "Maybe I need to back up."

"What do you mean?" asked Weahteral.

Tristal minimized the Outlook application so that the computer's desktop was displayed. "Let's see what else he's doing," he said. The mouse's cursor scurried about the screen, searching. He opened a file labeled Timetables.

"Oh," he declared. "Look at this."

"Tristan, I think you've confirmed it," said Ashton. Before them on the screen they saw a list of all the departure times of the Channel Tunnel's England to France freight trains. "What else is there?" Ashton asked.

"Let's see," Tristan wondered. His mouse wandered around the screen. "What's this?" he said, stopping at one file labeled Receipt. He clicked it.

"Jackpot!" rejoiced Weatheral, jumping to his feet. "This is it. They've reserved the entire outgoing train from England to France at noon on twenty-five September."

"Can you save that, Tristan?" inquired Ashton.

"Sure." Tristan tapped a key and clicked his mouse again. "Got it."

"Okay, Tristan," said Ashton, smiling. "Excellent work. Cover your tracks and shut it down."

Tristan's was clear in two minutes. He stood and arched his back, causing an audible crack. Weatheral clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good job, my lad. Superb!"

Tristan looked up at Weatheral and smiled. "Thank you, sir. May I talk to you, the colonel, Sergeant Major Dublin, and Brigadier Ashton in his office, please?"

Weatheral glanced at Ashton for confirmation. Ashton nodded. "Sure," said Weatheral. "This way."

The five of them exited the TOC and walked down the hallway to Ashton's office. Dublin, the last one to enter, shut the door behind them. They took seats in front of Ashton's desk while the brigadier sat behind the desk.

"Is it safe to talk in here?" Tristan asked.

"Yes," Ashton answered. "If you like, though, I can verify it with a quick scan." He swiveled in his chair and picked up a case by the wall. "I happen to still have this nifty device with me." He set the case on the desk and opened it, removing a machine slightly larger than a cell phone.

He explained as he stood and walked about the room. "The company that gave it to us for testing let us keep it. I sometimes carry it with me when I travel." A minute later, he sat again. "We're clear. There are no listening devices present. We can talk freely."

Tristan sighed and remained silent for a moment. He tapped his fingers on the armrest of the chair several times before he spoke.

"I'm worried about how you're going to take these guys at the train station," he admitted. "It's going to be very dangerous for everyone. I mean there are going to be civilians all around there, right."

Ashton nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"Would there be a problem if you waited until they were inside the tunnel before you attacked? That way there wouldn't be as many other people around."

"Inside the tunnel?" repeated Harrington, surprised.

Ashton looked at the others questioningly. "That's an interesting thought," he said. "Attacking a moving train would be quite difficult, though."

"What if you could stop the train?" Tristan queried.

Nodding again, Ashton answered, "That would simplify matters greatly, yes. My concern then would be one of the men triggering the explosives during the shootout."

Tristan stood from his seat and walked over to Ashton's desk. He reached across it and picked up Ashton's tablet. "I was thinking about that, too," he replied. "I think you might be able to avoid a shootout. You've already had so many of your men killed. It would be nice if you could handle this without further casualties."

"What's on your mind, then?" asked Ashton with interest.

Rather than answer verbally, Tristan handed the tablet back to him. He had opened a text editor application and typed out sixteen words. Ashton's eyebrows rose as he read it. He handed the tablet back to the boy. As Tristan allowed the others to read it, Ashton said, "Now that is quite a unique idea. I think we can do that. What do the rest of you think?"

"But can it be done without anyone at the station or the leak we know exists here finding out?" wondered Tristan.

Dublin sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He drummed his fingers on his knees for a few seconds as he thought. Finally, he opened his eyes and addressed the others.

"Yes," he said. "I believe it can. There is plenty of time. Leave it up to me."


	38. Lights Out

Author's Note: The introductory paragraph to this chapter is copied, nearly word for word, from the Wikipedia article about the Channel Tunnel. You can find the full article at wiki/Channel_Tunnel.

The description of the Chunnel's activity is based on 2017 data and is most likely still higher than the actual activity for 2005. It's good enough for storytelling purposes, though.

"From the back streets there's a rumbling  
Smell of anarchy  
No more nice time, bright boy shoe shines  
Pie in the sky dreams"

"Lights Out" - UFO

25 September 2005

Folkestone, England

The Channel Tunnel is a fifty point four five kilometer (31.35 mile) rail tunnel linking Folkestone, Kent, in England, with Coquelles, Pas-de-Calais, near Calais in northern France, beneath the English Channel at the Strait of Dover. It is the only fixed link between the island of Great Britain and the European mainland. At its lowest point, it is seventy-five meters (250 feet) deep below the sea bed and one hundred fifteen meters (380 feet) below sea level. At thirty-seven point nine kilometers (23.5 miles), the tunnel has the longest underwater section of any tunnel in the world. The speed limit for trains through the tunnel is one hundred sixty kilometers per hour (99 miles per hour).

The tunnel carries high-speed Eurostar passenger trains, the Eurotunnel Shuttle for road vehicles — the largest such transport in the world — and international goods trains. At peak times, there are five freight departures every hour in each direction. There is one truck shuttle departure every twelve minutes. Truck shuttles are composed of two locomotives, a club car for the truck drivers, three loading / unloading wagons and thirty-two carrier wagons. In 2004, the Chunnel had a throughput of over eighteen million gross tons of freight.

Ya'qoob el-Hasen eased his eighteen wheeler to a stop and shut off the engine. Opening the door, reached for the clipboard of paperwork at his side and climbed down. He smiled at the two workmen approaching him.

"Good morning," he greeted, his English perfect. "I'm John Hasen from Victoria Transport. I've got thirty-two trucks of machine parts for the noon train." He shook hands with the workmen and handed the clipboard to one of them. "Frank" was embossed one of the men's shirts.

"Yes, sir," said Frank. "We just need to run through the standard security checks and then we'll get you guys loaded up." Frank flipped through the paperwork, checking each page with an experienced eye. "All this seems to be in order. I understand you're also going to have your solicitor present to review and sign our customs ledger, is that right?"

"Yeah," replied Hasen, accepting the clipboard as he looked around. "He should be somewhere about." He pointed. "There he is now getting out of his car."

The two men gazed across the car park. Fifty meters away, they saw a smiling man in an expensive suit waving as he walked toward them. Hasen waved back.

"Good morning, gents," said the man once he was close enough. "I'm Douglas Caspar. I represent Victoria Transport."

"Yes, sir," stated Frank. "Mr. Hasen had just told me you would be here to review the customs documents. Would you mind following Hugh to the office while I direct the trucks to the security station?"

"Not at all," Caspar chirped, grinning.

Hasen turned back to his truck and climbed aboard. Frank joined him in the passenger seat and gave him directions. Driving slowly, the long line of trucks made their way over to the scanning station. A large warehouse-like building stood before them, its massive doors open.

"Just drive on through," said Frank. "Nice and easy."

Hasen pressed the gas pedal, keeping the speed low. He suppressed a grin as he entered the scanner. They would find nothing, he knew. Their master chemist, Carlton Pollack, had seen to that with his planned modifications to the trailers. Even without that, he had told the drivers, his type of explosive was one of the harder ones to detect even with modern equipment. Hasen continued to drive until he was at the far end of the scanner and out the other side. Frank directed him to the train's loading platform. Now Hasen allowed himself to grin.

xxxxxxxxxx

Steyn lowered his binoculars and tapped the steering wheel of his car.

"The first one is through the scanner, Carl," he said, handing the binos to Pollack.

Accepting the glasses, Pollack took a look for himself. He smiled.

"Still a long wait, but a good start."

"Yes, but once that train is halfway through the tunnel, the real fun will start."

"Hasen knows the correct time, right?" asked Pollack.

"I think we've both drilled it into him enough times," answered Steyn. "Assuming the train departs on time, he'll hit the detonator ten minutes later. That should place them right at the center of the tunnel."

Pollack nodded. "Good. With that much explosive, it should shatter the supports and flood the entire tunnel. At least for the freight side of things, it will be a total loss." Pollack shook his head. "We really should have considered hitting the passenger side of the line, as well."

"Perhaps," mused Steyn, "but just imagine the logistical nightmare that would have been for us. And how many more devices you would have had to build."

Pollack waved a hand. "It would have been worth it, in this case. Just think of the devastation it would have caused."

"For now, I will be quite satisfied with this, I think. It will be a magnificent coup for us."

"That it will," said Pollack, returning the binoculars.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 September 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

"The link to the CCTV cameras is hot, Sergeant Major. We have visibility across the entire station."

"Thank you, Jack," said Weatheral, sipping his coffee.

"Alpha Company is on site with the brigadier and RSM," reported Robyn Radway.

"Thank you, ma'am," the ops sergeant major acknowledged. He glanced toward the back of the room, catching Colonel Harrington's eye. "Any instructions, sir?"

Harrington shook his head. "None for now, Sergeant Major. We just wait for now."

"That's the hardest part of it all," stated Sergeant Cramer.

"I completely agree, Cramer," said Harrington. "One hundred percent."

xxxxxxxxxx

25 September 2005

Folkestone, England

"Alright, John," said Frank. "You can go on up to the club car now that your truck has been loaded."

Hasen smiled and shook his head. "I'll be more comfortable once all the trucks are onboard, thanks."

Frank shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm going to head back up to the main office and see how things are going with your solicitor."

"Thanks," replied Hasen, nodding and shaking hands with Frank once more.

Hasen turned back to face the train as Frank walked away. He would not be coming back from this mission. He knew this. So did the other thirty-one drivers of the trucks. They were all fully aware of the fact they would meet their own deaths this day and yet they were not afraid.

Though they also knew they would not be killing many of their infidel enemies when they died, their actions would cripple the economic engine which fed their enemies. Their deed would be felt not just in England but in the whole of Europe. Every country which benefited from the Channel Tunnel would suffer as a result of its destruction. Destroying their ability to make money was just as good as destroying their bodies, Hasen thought. More so, in fact, because it would take them longer to recover from it.

Watching another truck as it was secured onto its transport wagon, Hasen smiled to himself once again. His fingers caressed the small device in his trouser pocket with care. Such power rested in that little machine. At ten minutes past noon today, an entire continent would shudder from it. Hasen licked his lips and whispered part of a verse from the Quran.

" _Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un_ (We belong to Allah and to Allah we shall return)."

xxxxxxxxxxx

25 September 2005

Hereford, England

NextGen Headquarters

Weatheral checked the time on the wall clock. 1100. He turned to Jack.

"Okay, Jack, initiate the first part of Tristan's plan."

"Yes, Sergeant Major." Jack typed a command into his computer and waited. "Confirmed. All internet traffic and cell phone signals on Stirling Lines and surrounding areas, except the TOC, are shut down until further notice. Same for the area around the station."

"Good. That should hopefully keep any talkative types from getting word out to anyone. Send confirmation to the brigadier."

xxxxxxxxxx

25 September 2005

Folkestone, England

"That's the last truck," said Pollack. "It won't be long now."

"Great," commented Steyn with a sigh as he shut the car door. "That trip behind the trees was well worth it, at least for my bladder. Now I can watch the rest of the show in comfort."

Pollack grinned at the South African. "Tough duty, eh?"

"Not as tough as for those bastards on the train," scoffed Steyn with a smile. "I'll take this any day."

Pollack chuckled. "Good point."

Steyn leaned his head on seat's headrest, his eyes closed. "It's been a long, hard year to get to this day. Hard to believe it will be over in twenty minutes, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is. What will you do after this?"

"For starters? Go back to Jo'burg and get drunk. After that, lay low for a while and enjoy all the money I've made from this venture. I've made millions from this. There's nothing I won't be able to do with that kind of money. And you?"

"Pretty much the same. Maybe I'll go somewhere on the continent, maybe Italy, and just sail about on a boat for a bit. I miss the smell of the sea."

"Mmm…sounds like a good plan." Steyn opened his eyes. He watched the drivers as they walked toward the club car. "There they go, on their way for their final voyage." His gaze wandered to the other side of the station. "What's going on over there?" he asked, pointing.

Pollack raised his binoculars. "Two policemen and a guy in civilian clothes walking toward the main office." He watched them for a few seconds. "Oh, shit!" he exclaimed.

"What? What is it?"

"The guy is civies is Ashton."

"Ashton is here?"

"Yeah, he and the two cops just went into the office."

"Fuck!" hissed Steyn, seizing his cell phone. He stared at its little screen, aghast. It read, "No service."

"How's your phone?" he asked Pollack, a small note of panic in his voice.

Pollack reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone, a little too slowly for Steyn's liking, but he said nothing. The British Immortal looked at the screen, tapping it several times.

"No service," Pollack finally said.

"Shit," gulped Steyn, his eyes shifting over to the train as it began to move. "We have no way to warn them."

xxxxxxxxxx

"This is the last document, Mr. Caspar," said Hugh. "If you'll just sign here, please."

Caspar scribbled a signature across the bottom of the page and returned the form to Hugh with a smile.

"Please have copies of all of these documents forwarded to my office, if you would."

"No problem, sir," replied Hugh.

"Is there anything else?" Caspar asked, ignoring the jingling of the bell above the door behind him.

"No, sir. That's all. Thank you very much."

"I'll be off, then. Thank you very much, Hugh." Caspar turned. Three men stood between him and the exit. The one in the center, a blond man in khakis and a polo shirt, was grinning at him.

"Hello, Mr. Caspar," greeted the man. "I must inform you that your travel plans are going to be slightly altered this morning." He gestured to the two uniformed police officers behind him. "These gentlemen would like to speak with you about a few matters of great importance."

xxxxxxxxxx

Hasen relaxed in the club car, his mind at ease as he sipped a cup of hot tea brought to him by an orderly. He eyed the clock on the wall, the official station time, and mentally repeated his Quranic verse from earlier. It would not be long now. Feeling the train move beneath him, he smiled and sipped the hot beverage. Everything was proceeding perfectly.

The orderlies were making their way about the car, checking each of the driver's satisfaction like busy little bees. Hasen was pleased by the lengths the station had gone to see to their comfort and happiness during the short trip. A dozen orderlies had been assigned to the club car alone. The work of an orderly must be harder than he thought, as well. Each of the men - for they were all men - were quite fit, unlike Frank who had been about ten kilos overweight, and all of these men adhered to a strict grooming standard with their short haircuts and lack of tattoos.

 _Almost like soldiers,_ Hasen thought to himself, closing his eyes. The thought gave him pause. He opened his eyes a moment later and watched one of the men closely.

The orderly had nothing on his person that seemed to indicate a military membership. His clothing did not appear out of the ordinary. Neither did his movements as he moved from seat to seat, seeing to the needs of each rider. So what made him stand out? Was it just the haircut?

Hasen decided to ignore the man, at least for now, and focused his eyes toward the front of the car. Two of the orderlies stood up there, their hands clasped in front of them, easy smiles on their lips. He heard the orderly behind him move to the back of the car.

His attention was drawn to the two men momentarily when they knelt and each picked up a box from beneath the snack table. Placing them on the table, they slowly opened the boxes and began removing items. Hasen watched them closely. He relaxed when he saw them placing additional snack items on the table. No threat there. He looked at the clock again. Four minutes after. Six to go.

Hasen had just closed his eyes for a second when he felt the train begin to slow. A popping sound behind him brought him to full alertness. He turned to face the rear of the car. His jaw dropped in horror. Where ten orderlies should have stood, he saw instead ten men in alien-like masks. One of them held a canister emitting an evil hissing sound and a mostly-clear gas. A pepper-like odor tinged his nostrils. Spinning quickly to the front, Hasen saw the two orderlies there rapidly donning similar masks.

The compound o-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile is the defining component of a tear gas commonly referred to as CS gas, which is used as a riot control agent. Exposure causes a burning sensation and tearing of the eyes to the extent that the subject cannot keep his eyes open, and a burning irritation of the mucous membranes of the nose, mouth and throat, resulting in profuse coughing, nasal mucus discharge, disorientation, and difficulty breathing, partially incapacitating the subject. CS gas is an aerosol of a volatile solvent (a substance that dissolves other active substances and that easily evaporates) and 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile, which is a solid compound at room temperature. CS gas is generally accepted as being non-lethal. It was first synthesized by two Americans, Ben Corson and Roger Stoughton, and the chemical's name is derived from the first letters of the scientists' surnames.

The gas was already having a profound effect on the occupants of the club car. Men were gasping and choking, staggering around the car as they fought to breathe. Amidst the chaos, the masked orderlies were seizing the men and throwing them to the floor. Hasen could not tell what happened to them after that. He stood, his eyes burning, and reached into his pocket.

The detonator was a small, rectangular device about the size of a computer mouse. Across the top were three LED lights; in its center, a rotating knob; and at the bottom, a pop-up button. Beneath each light were the words Power, Charging, and Ready, respectively. Hasen coughed and fell to a knee. He spat a wad of phlegm from his mouth. Fighting to open his eyes, he rotated the knob from left to right. The top left light illuminated. The middle light began to flash. Two seconds later, it remained on and the right-side light flashed on. Ready. The button at the bottom popped up.

Hasen gagged and spat again. Through his burning eyes, he looked with defiance at the men at the front of the car and lifted the detonator. His thumb over the button, he shouted, " _Allahu akbar!"_

An electric jolt shot through Hasen's entire body. The detonator fell from his numb fingers as he crumpled to the floor, twitching in pain. Through the hacking and coughing, the burning of his eyes, and the searing of his skin, he finally noticed the two wired barbs embedded in his chest, electrocuting him. Then he finally passed out.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Nightmare Six, this is Alpha Six. Club car is secure and all occupants are down and flex-cuffed. No casualties. Over."

"Very good, Alpha Six. Any sign of Steyn or Pollack, over?"

"Negative, Nightmare Six. Over."

"Thank you, Alpha Six. Tell the driver to reverse the train and come out. Nightmare Six out."

Replacing the radio microphone, Ashton glanced over at Dublin. "Not that I truly expected those two to be on the train, but it would have been nice nonetheless."

Dublin grinned. "Either way, we're going to have to hand today to Tristan. His idea worked out splendidly."

Ashton laughed and tapped his tablet lightly. "That it did. Let's go home and tell him." He looked down at the words the boy had written a week earlier and marveled at their spectacular results.

Gas and tasers.

Jam all cell phones and computers on Stirling Lines and at the train.


	39. Daggers and Pills

"Hypocrite, four flusher, snake in  
The grass  
Just a swindler and wolf in sheep's  
Clothing, liar"

"All Is Forgiven" - Jellyfish

25 September 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"My God, Tristan," remarked Johnny. "I thought our workout this morning would have had your properly worn out for the day. Instead, you want to work out again and then spar? Where'd you get all this energy?"

"I don't know, but I might as well put it to good use, right? It's better than watching television, if we had one, or eating Cheetos."

"Well, that's true," agreed Johnny. He nudged Alyssa beside him and looked across the breakfast table at Paula. "Since I refused you ladies a few weeks ago, would you two like to join us now?"

"A workout and a spar? That's a bit much, isn't it?" Paula regarded them both with questioning eyes. "Especially right after breakfast?"

"I'm sure Tristan's not talking about having us chundering (vomiting) all over the grass right after our meal."

"Nah," said Tristan. "Maybe just a run."

"A run or a Johnny run?" asked Alyssa. "There's a difference."

"A run," answered Tristan, laughing. "I'm still not up to his kind of run. No way."

"Alright," agreed Paula. "Let me go get changed, then. And only if we can swim after all this madness and properly cool off."

"Deal," smiled Tristan.

They met in the front yard ten minutes later. After several minutes of stretching, they set out. The pace was moderate so they could all stay in a group. They were even able to chat as they went.

"Where was David this morning?" asked Paula.

Johnny answered. "Last night he said he had to be somewhere this morning. He didn't say where."

Alyssa inquired, "Did he say when he'd be back?"

"No, just that he'd be away for awhile."

"NextGen or other business?" This was from Paula.

"He didn't say," said Johnny.

They kept the leisurely pace for an hour, their conversation digressing to any topic that came to mind. Johnny grinned and warned the group when he saw where they were going next.

"Hey, guys, Tristan's taking us to Cardiac Hill. He wants to do some sprints."

"Oh, God," said Alyssa. "I thought we weren't going to hurl today."

"That was earlier," retorted Tristan. "You should be fine now."

"Fine is relative, little guy," replied Paula, keeping the pace.

They arrived at the hill minutes later. Tristan led them through five sets of sprints before declaring an end to them and saying they could walk back home. The girls cheered weakly, lifting their hands in the air.

"Johnny has really taught you the ways of the masochistic workout nut, hasn't he," commented Alyssa as they trundled back.

"He's taught me a lot," breathed Tristan. "I don't know about being a masochist, though."

"Oh, if you like a hill like that, you're definitely a masochist, little man," wheezed Paula. "No doubt."

"You still want to spar when we get back?" asked Johnny.

"Yeah, I'm good for that."

Alyssa slowed her pace, lifted Tristan's shirt, and ran her hand along his back. The boy giggled.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for your battery compartment," she said. "Whatever is powering you, I want a set of them."

The quartet laughed at the comment. "I'm just a normal kid," declared Tristan, still walking.

"Yeah," said Alyssa. "A normal, twelve-year-old Immortal boy with an insatiable appetite and boundless energy. Right."

"And he's hot," quipped Johnny. "I'm going to hook him up with a modeling agency next week."

Tristan stopped. He looked at the back of Johnny's still moving head. "You are?"

Jonny turned to face him. He grinned. "Yeah. Didn't I mention that?"

"No."

"Well, I am. You'll make a killing modeling kids' clothing. And, if you don't mind showing a bit of skin, the camera will love you in swimwear. You'll be a star."

Tristan blushed. "Is that such a good idea? I'm supposed to keep a low profile, right?"

"It's no problem with proper management," soothed Johnny. "And you've got two pros right here," he indicated himself and Alyssa, "to help you out with it."

"Oh, wow!"

Johnny slowed and slipped an arm around Tristan's shoulders and they continued walking.

"Trust me, kid. You're gonna go far." Behind them, Alyssa giggled again. Johnny turned his head. "What's so funny?"

Alyssa put a finger to her lips and smiled. "You looked just like the Artful Dodger when you did that."

Johnny smiled and tossed a hand in the air as he walked. "Where do you think Dickens got the idea, huh?"

"Okay," demanded Paula upon their return. "Now that we're back, let's at least change into dry clothes."

"That's fine," Tristan commented with a happy sigh. "And we can spar in the back garden. Get some fresh air for a change rather than that stuffy training hall."

"Great," said Johnny. "I'll get Marc, Tally, and Blake to distract Despa in the house so he doesn't bother us outside. We'll meet back out here in a few minutes."

"Wow!" Alyssa marvelled. "It's already ten o'clock. You've had us out here for two hours now."

"And I'm not done yet," said Tristan. He danced around the yard in his new outfit of denim shorts and t-shirt.

"You're still not tired?" asked Paula.

"No, not really. I think I'm all hyped up on adrenaline or something."

"Why's that?"

"I can't really say. I just get this way sometimes." He smiled. "Shall we spar?"

"Real blades or wooden?" asked Johnny. "I brought both for us all."

"Let's go with real," Tristan said. "I think we're all good enough we can pull our punches when needed. You and me again?"

"Sure," agreed Johnny.

They paired off and practiced various styles of combat, all at full speed. Each match did not last long and all of them had to rest many times. True swordplay is exhausting work. After each break, they changed partners and weapons and went at it again. By eleven thirty, they were all drenched in sweat and had to sit down again.

"I should have done like Johnny and taken off my shirt when we started," commented Tristan. "This one is ruined now." He stood up and shucked the tattered garment. He walked a few meters away and tossed it away.

The girls laughed behind him. "We're in the same boat, little man," said Alyssa.

"You could always fight nude," suggested Johnny.

"Not as hot as you think it might be," countered Alyssa. "At least if you listen to the stories David tells."

"Yeah, you're right. I remember some of those stories." Johnny's face darkened, a considerable feat given his near-permanent tan. "But some of those women were practically men from the way he tells it."

Paula shifted her position on the grass, moving the cutlass at her waist out of way so she could move, and reached for her cell phone. She flipped it open and scowled.

"What's wrong, Paula?" Alyssa asked her.

"My phone's not working. It says "No service.""

Tristan turned and smiled. "Yeah, that's 'cause I had the NextGen guys shut off all the cell service around here."

Paula's face went pale. "Why would you do that?" she asked. "What if my employer needs to contact me?"

"So whoever is feeding information to Aadam Farid's people can't talk to them while David's men are taking down the terrorists on the train. They also shut down the computer lines and all cell service in Kent. It'll be back up in a little while, though. Just be patient."

Paula was immobile only for a moment. After that, she moved with amazing speed. "You little shit," she spat. In two seconds, she was on her feet and had cleared the distance between herself and Tristan. Her fist shot out, smashing into the boy's nose before he could react. She was then behind him, the blade of her Medici dagger at his throat.

"Don't move, little man," she purred lightly. "And you two," she said to the two teens still in the grass, "stay where you are." Johnny and Alyssa didn't move.

Wrapping her other arm around her captive's shoulders, Paula said, "Tristan and I are going on a little trip now. You two are going to stay right there until we're gone. Understood?"

"You were the invormant?" Tristan asked, his words muddled by the blood in his throat. His arms hung limply by his sides.

Paula shook him with an inhuman gentleness. "Not that it matters to you, but yes. All this time, right under that cute little button nose of yours."

"Don't hurt him," implored Alyssa. "Let him go and take me instead."

"Tempting, but no," Paula sneered. "Now not another word from you or you will lose another friend."

"What do you mean?" Johnny asked her. Paula only grinned at him. Johnny's face fell as the eventual realization struck him. "You killed Raven," he whispered. "Her dealer didn't lace her cocaine with anything. You poisoned her." Slowly, Paula nodded.

"She was a threat. At least, I thought she was." Paula shrugged. "I was mistaken."

"We tought the inzide man waz a NextZen guy," muttered Tristan.

"Well, you were wrong about that now, weren't you? Now you be quiet, too. We're going to go into the house now, get my car keys, and drive away from here. And your little friends are going to sit here nice and cooperative or that little brown-haired head of yours is going to hit the ground before they get any closer. So they're not going to try any tricks, right? Let's just back into the house nice and slo… Fuck!"

The Medici dagger fell to the grass, forgotten, as the tendons of Paula's right wrist were severed by a karambit blade. At the same moment, Tristan's left elbow swung back, impacting the woman's solar plexus. The German Immortal staggered back, her breath stolen from her. She fought to right herself, raising her savaged right arm to view the damage done to it. Tendrils of lightning were already knitting the wounds. Her eyes turned to the boy in front of her and she grinned.

Wheezing as Tristan stepped away and drew a second karambit from his left pocket, she gasped, "Cute trick." Flexing the fingers of her right hand, she drew her cutlass from its scabbard. "But let's see how you fare against a real sword, little man."

Seeing Johnny and Alyssa standing up, she directed the tip of the blade toward them. "You two stay way. My challenge is to him." The two teens froze again. Looking back at Tristan, she said, "Well, Tristan? What do you say?"

Tristan just gulped and set his feet shoulder-width apart. He sniffed, his nose now completely healed, and breathed deeply. The cutlass's tip was pointed directly between his eyes. He ignored it and looked only into the eyes of his opponent.

Paula's first attack was imperceptibly fast. Johnny and Alyssa only made out the slightest movement of her wrist as she began to move. Alyssa screamed, knowing Tristan could not possibly survive such a swift maneuver. The German woman had clearly been holding back during the previous year's sparring. Her true skill was much higher than she had let on.

Johnny and Alyssa blinked, expecting to see their friend dead on the ground. They gawked in amazement. Tristan was still on his feet. A shallow diagonal slash from his shoulder to his hip indicated his narrow escape from the blade. Tristan braced himself, one karambit raised high, the other low, and took a deep breath. He watched the petite German woman as she circled him, matching her movements.

"Don't let surviving one pass get you too confident, little man," she chided. "We're not finished yet."

She came at him again, an overhead slash this time, her own breath rushing from her lips with the exertion. Tristan evaded to the right and whipped his left hand up. He hissed as the blade bit into his thigh. There was a soft click. Tristan staggered to the side, fighting for balance. Bright blood ran down his leg. Paula, the tendons of her inner right forearm severed, dropped her cutlass. She caught it in her other hand.

"Not quite enough, Tristan."

Wincing, the boy before her stood straight again. Paula's cutlass was now positioned at her left hip, sharp edge toward her back. Tristan closed on her at a run, his karambits raised. Paula rotated her wrist and brought the cutlass up in another diagonal slash. Tristan went to his knees and leaned to his left, narrowly avoiding the blade as it cut the air over his ear. His momentum still carrying him forward, he stopped just in front of the German. Crossing the karambits in front of him, he slashed outward with both of them, a mighty shout escaping his lips. The claw-shaped blades bit deeply into the muscles above Paula's kneecaps. Her equilibrium destroyed, she tottered back and fell.

Tristan regained his feet immediately and stalked up to the woman. The fight not out of her yet, Paula lunged at him with the cutlass. Tristan stepped aside, allowing the blade to cut across his right forearm as he dropped the blade in that hand, and slashed across her wrist with the karambit in his left hand. The cutlass fell into his waiting right hand. With only a small correction to steady the weapon, Tristan whirled it around to rest the blade against the German woman's throat. She looked up at him, abject fear in her eyes.

"Johnny," she called out. "Johann. Won't you help me? Please?"

Tristan turned his head slowly to regard the other boy. Johnny looked across the yard at the fallen woman. After a long silence, he shook his head.

"No, Paula. Unlike you, I've changed over the years. I'm not helping you." Shifting his gaze to Tristan, he nodded. "Do it, Tristan," he whispered. Then he turned his back on both of them.

Tristan looked down at the woman. A single tear fell from her eye. His own eyes going misty, Tristan raised the cutlass high, steadied himself, and brought it back down again. He looked down only to make sure his ghastly handiwork was complete before tossing the cutlass aside and awaiting the inevitable, his eyes clamped shut and tears flowing freely.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 September 2005

Reading, England

Taaha al-Akram, the cook for the men at the Reading location gawked openly at Steyn and Pollack entered the kitchen. He stopped packing the room's equipment and wiped his hands.

"You guys are back earlier than I thought," he said. "What up?"

"Change of plans," answered Steyn. Looking about the room, he sighed. "Don't worry about a clean pack. Just take whatever you want for yourself and get out of here. You've got an hour. Disappear." Steyn set a briefcase on the kitchen table and opened it. He pulled a sheaf of notes from inside and dropped it on the table.

"That's five thousand pounds, the rest of your salary plus a bonus. Take it and go. You were never here and you don't know us. Understood?"

Akram nodded and got busy. "Yes, sir. And thank you."

"What about the others?" asked Pollack.

"There are only two other guys, right?" Pollack nodded. "We give them the same severance and let them go, too. Do you have anymore explosives?"

"One or two."

"Good. We gather up the sensitive stuff, the computer, the plans, everything, and blow it. Then we fade away. We're done here."

xxxxxxxxxx

25 September 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

Ashton and Dublin stepped through the front door. Sean Bremner met them in the foyer, his expression grim. The two Immortals stopped and shut the door quietly.

Ashton addressed his butler. "What is it, Sean?"

"It's Tristan, sir. He, Johnny, and Alyssa are in the dining room right now. I'm afraid they are all quite inebriated at the moment."

Ashton nodded, reading more into the situation. "The kids?"

"In the back garden playing with Despa. Miss Asami is with them. By the way, Mr. Connelly and some other Watchers have already dealt with the mess."

"Mess?" queried Dublin.

"I believed Johnny and Alyssa should explain, sir. They can do a better job than I."

Both of the men nodded again. "Thank you, Sean," said Ashton softly. "Please let Asami know I'm back."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

The two Immortals tread lightly toward the dining room. The door was open. Ashton tapped on the door with his knuckles as they entered, a superfluous gesture since he knew the three teens had sensed their presence earlier. Ashton noted the clean shirts they wore and the grass stains on their shorts as he sat at the head of the table. Dublin dallied briefly behind him. The tear tracks along all of their cheeks were also plainly obvious.

Johnny and Alyssa sat on either side of Tristan. Several bottles of Ashton's Scotch and bourbon were placed before them, half full glasses nearby. From the glazed look in their eyes as they lethargically raised their gaze, they had been drinking for quite a while. Dublin entered and sat across from the children, his back to the door, two glasses in his hand. He passed one to Ashton. The two men waited.

Alyssa, seated closest to Ashton, slid a bottle of Scotch down the table to him. Ashton glanced at the table, noticing the several wooden casks which held his older bottles. He turned the bottle in his hand. It was the twenty-five year vintage. He raised an eyebrow and showed it to Dublin, eliciting a similar reaction. Saying nothing, he poured a healthy measure and passed the bottle to the Irishman. He sipped and continued to wait.

Tristan sniffed softly and reached for his tumbler. He drained the remainder of it contents and reached for the nearest bottle with a shaky hand. Alyssa placed her hand atop his and poured for him. He nodded his thanks to her and sat quietly. When she was finished, he drank half of that glass, as well. Finally, he turned his bleary eyes to Ashton.

"It was…P…Paula," he said, placing his palms flat on the tabletop as if that would stabilize his speech. "She was the inside man."

Ashton said nothing. He only sipped from his tumbler again. Dublin shook his head and did the same.

Tristan lifted his glass once more, this time with both hands, and emptied it again, his eyes closed. The empty vessel clattered across the table as he set it down. Dublin caught it before it hit the floor.

"She admitted she killed Raven. Thought she knew or something. Then she…then she tried to…" Tristan hiccupped and crossed his arms on the table, resting his head on them.

Johnny continued for him. "She tried to kill Tristan when she learned the cell phones had been blocked. Said she was the insider all along."

Alyssa joined in the narrative. "Then Tristan pulled two karambits from some kind of hidden scabbards in his pockets and fought her. She was even better than we thought, but he won. She begged for Johnny to save her but he refused." Alyssa ran a gentle hand along Tristan's back. "Tristan took her head with her own sword. He's been crying ever since. We all have." She glanced at Ashton. "What time is it?"

Ashton looked at his watch. "One-thirty. We just flew in."

Alyssa nodded. Still stroking the boy's back, she added, "We loved her. And she betrayed us. All of us."


	40. The Tears Again

"Yesterday could be a song for the years refrain  
Think the best of me  
I've given all I've been out for  
Oh, I've been bought out"

"Down the Backstairs (Of My Life)" - Joey Scarbury

07 October 2005

Hereford, England

Ashton Residence

"When does our new superstar model get back?" Vivia asked.

Sather checked his watch. "Should be in the next five minutes or so."

"Thank you so much for being here to welcome him back from his first shoot," said Asami from the opposite couch. "I know he'll be pleased to see you."

"Oh, that's not a problem at all," replied Sather. "After what he's done for us, it's the least we can do."

"What did he do?" Tally looked up at Sather. Vivia was sandwiched between two Watchers. Tally was stretched out comfortably with her head on Vivia's thigh and her legs across Jack's lap.

"He sent a lot of bad guys to jail," said Jack, patting her knee.

"Really?" asked Tally, a grin forming across her face. "Marc will love it when he hears that."

"Speaking of Tristan's shadow," wondered Sather, "where is he?"

"I don't know," answered Asami. She looked at Blake who was leaning contentedly against her arm. "Have you seen him?"

Blake pointed. "Upstairs." He settled back into a happy, eyes half-closed state.

"Would you go get him, Dev?" requested Vivia. "We're kind of trapped." She indicated herself and Jack.

Sather gave her an exaggerated roll of the eyes and a smile. "Sure," he said. "Be right back."

He took the stairs two at a time and started down the hall. Marc was not hard to find. The boy was standing in the hallway, staring at a closed door. Sather approached him slowly. Seeing tears on his cheeks, Sather knelt by the boy and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, little guy," he whispered. "What's wrong?"

Marc turned to face him, his blue eyes huge and quivering. He stepped closer to the blond man.

"I miss Paula," he said.

Sather looked at the door. He nodded. It had been her room. He tenderly pulled the child to him.

"You keep expecting her to walk out of there, huh?"

Marc nodded. "She always played with us and made us laugh. She was fun. Now she's gone."

Marc put his face in Sather's shoulder, taking comfort from the physical contact. Sather put a hand on the boy's back and stood, picking him up.

Marc pulled his head from Sather's shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "Why did she go?" he asked, suddenly sounding older than his eight years.

Sather blinked, struck by the quandary of telling an eight-year old boy of the crimes of his playmate or making up some lie. Even worse, he wondered whether he should admit that Paula Thaler was actually dead. He chose an - almost - happy medium instead.

"Marc," he began, adjusting his hold on the boy, "Paula did some bad things that hurt a lot of people and she had to go away. She won't be coming back."

Marc's expression changed from sad to serious. He placed his hands on Sather's cheeks and steadied their gaze.

"Hurt people how? Like hospital hurt or killed hurt?"

Sather blushed at the boy's bluntness. "Both," he replied.

"And she's gone now because she's paying for what she did?" There was an almost lethal air to the child's tone.

"Well, yes."

"And she'll never come back or hurt anyone ever again?"

"No, never again."

Marc removed his hand from Sather's face. He leaned back in the Watcher's arms and wiped the tears from his cheeks. With effort, he smiled at the tall man.

"Then I won't cry for her anymore. I don't cry for bad people."

"Alright," said Sather. "How about we go downstairs and welcome Tristan back from his first photoshoot?"

The smile became genuine now. "Okay!" Marc chirped. "Let's go."

The door was opening as they made their way down the stairs. Tristan came bounding through the door at a run, a bright smile on his lips.

"Woah!" exclaimed Vivia, as Tally rolled off her onto the floor and stood. "Someone's excited."

"Yeah," asserted Tristan, beaming. "That was awesome!"

"Didn't I tell you?" said Johnny, coming through the door.

"So he did well?" asked Asami.

Alyssa entered in time to hear the question. She grinned and answered, "He killed it. They loved him. They want him back next week for more."

"And that's just with the tips we gave him before he walked in today," chimed Johnny. "Once we show him the ropes, he'll be a real pro. He's a natural in front of the camera."

"Is it really that hard," inquired Jack.

"Oh, yeah," said Alyssa. "If you don't know what you're doing, the photographers will throw you out of the studio for wasting their time. We spent two hours with Tristan and then he went in there like he'd been doing this for years. He was incredible."

Marc leapt from Sather's arms and ran over to Tristan. He enveloped the older boy in a massive hug. Looking up at him with a huge smile, he said, "I'm glad you had a good day, big brother. I love you."

Tristan gasped and stroked the child's hair. "Thank you, little brother," he replied. "I love you, too."

xxxxxxxxxx

30 October 2005

Convoy Support Center (CSC) Scania, Iraq

From: Specialist Morgan, Daniel J.; 1st Battalion, Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 180th Armor Battalion, 84th Separate Infantry Brigade, 3rd Infantry Division, USACENTCOM

To: Major General Ashton, David E.; NextGen Corporation

CC: daniel.

Date: 30 October 2005

Subject: Serve Piping Hot With a Dash of Sand

Attachment: Morgan Resume - As of

Major General Ashton:

Thank you so much for your most recent email. I was greatly pleased to hear about your promotion to major general, even if it was, for the most part, an honorary ceremony. I can think of no one, even many of our own officers, who deserves such a posting more.

I am quite intrigued by the whole concept of Next Generation Corporation and your request for my resume has truly flattered me. You will find it attached to this email. I'm afraid, compared to most of the people under your employ, it is probably quite humble. It is still worth a shot, though. Please let me know what you think of it. The thought of potentially working with such great people as yourself and Sergeant Major Dublin, in whatever capacity, has me doing mental cartwheels.

Well, I suppose I should let you know what has happened over the last month or so. It has been an interesting time, to put it mildly. Back in the last week of September, two NCOs from the 101st Airborne Division arrived at FOB Saint Michael (we had just renamed it FOB Mahmudiyah, by the way) as part of the advanced party to take over responsibility for the area. One of them, Sergeant First Class Albertson, was cocky as hell and kept talking about how his battalion was going to do things better than we had; the other, Sergeant First Class Wesley, was quieter and preferred just to watch and listen to us. His opinion was that we knew the area and the enemy and he should make no snap judgements. We got along with him much better than Sergeant Albertson.

A few more 101st guys arrived a few days later and Sergeant Wesley had a funny anecdote for them that afternoon after they had only been there a few hours. Our artillery battery responded to some mortar fire in Yusufiyah by shooting off a few rounds. The 101st soldiers who were talking to Sergeant Wesley in the staff tent hit the floor right away. Sergeant Wesley laughed and told them a story.

He said, "Guys, let me tell you about what happened to me two nights ago. I woke up to the sound of that very same kind of fire. It was thunderous and shook the ground just like you felt now. I woke up and rolled off my cot. I pulled my body armor over me and reached for my ACH. Then I looked around and saw all the National Guard guys around me were still sawing logs. It was then that I thought to myself, _Huh, it must be outgoing fire._

"These guys can tell the difference between incoming and outgoing fire even in their sleep. So while they're here, learn from these National Guard guys. If you hear something and see them hit the ground, you hit the ground. It they keep talking, just like you see them doing now, then don't panic. They know this area. Learn from their experience."

Sadly, though, Sergeant Wesley was the only one of those guys that impressed me. The others, as far as I could tell, were so full of themselves that they seemed pretty much worthless. Everyone else in the company seemed to have the same impression. We developed the term "resting on the laurels of their grandfathers" to describe the lot of them.

Let me tell you about my last night in Mahmudiyah. It sums things up rather well. First of all, I had a small gathering of friends at my tent, Sergeant Templar, Specialist Jay, and Specialist Grenier, and had one last cigar to celebrate our leaving. We also lifted a bottle of water to toast our fallen friends, and yours, once more. We then picked up our baggage and sauntered down to the little flight pad to await the Chinook which would carry us away from Mahmudiyah.

There were maybe eighty or ninety guys waiting there in the dark. It was certainly the largest assembly since the memorial. We were nervous because we were out in the open but excited, of course, because we were leaving. Would you believe it? One of the 101st guys drove up on us in a HMWWV with his headlights on. White lights in Mahmudiyah! He must have been insane! We stampeded the vehicle, ripped open his door, and forced him to shut off the lights. I think some of the guys may have "laid hands" on him, as well, but I couldn't tell.

Things really got crazy later on. We were still waiting for the Chinook. We had no idea when it would be there, naturally, and were getting impatient. By now, I should mention, that the 101st had taken over all operations on the FOB. This was it for us. We were the second to last group to leave. There would just be a few officers and NCOs left once we got on the Chinook. That, I know, is what led to the next bit of insanity.

As I'm sure you remember, there is a vehicle entry point near the flight pad. There are also several guard towers near that entry point. Well, we were standing at the helipad, just chatting away, when a long, sustained burst of automatic fire came from one of the guard towers nearby. We stopped talking and turned to laugh at the guard in the tower. One of the scouts, Staff Sergeant Seibert, shouted up at him, "Warning shots are six to nine round bursts, not sixty-nine round bursts, asshole." We just laughed even louder.

We knew something had gone wrong when the radio on Sergeant First Class Daily's shoulder crackled. Sergeant Daily, who managed FOB security while we were there, was supposed to fly out with us. Sergeant Daily was being told that the 101st security manager and the tower guard who had just fired the burst had just been relieved and he was being called back to work. We started chattering again, wondering what had happened. Who had the tower guard shot? In another minute or two, we found out.

A vehicle came rumbling slowly through the entry point. It was an American HMWWV. And it had been shot to hell. The gunner's cupola was pockmarked with impact points. So was the windshield at both the driver's and passenger's side. Both of the front tires were flat and the headlights had been shot out. The front of the vehicle was riddled with holes. As the HMWWV continued to roll, the passenger door and the door behind it opened. Lieutenant Colonel Rey got out from the front passenger seat, cursing like mad, and the 101st battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Tim Kunk, emerged from the seat behind him, also streaming profanities. They walked alongside the vehicle as it limped along into the FOB. I heard Colonel Rey seething the words, "Fucking green-ass private," as he pounded the hood with his fist.

None of us laughed when we saw this. It was then that I realized just how inexperienced the regular Army people actually were. I was stunned. For years, I had heard the propaganda about how the reserve components were substandard compared to the regulars. Now I saw the truth. It was just the opposite. The regular Army infantryman, for example, only knows how to pull a trigger and nothing else. He has no idea how to handle a stressful situation except to fall back on that small amount of training. His reserve component counterpart has other skills and experience to balance that out.

I thought about a recent patrol in which some of our Alabama infantry guys came upon some locals with a blown generator in their house. The patrol's machine gunner was a generator repairman on the civilian side and was able to fix the generator in just a few minutes with the multitool on his belt and a spare part the local had in his house. Tell me a 101st soldier could do that. Yes, I am now firmly a believer that the reserve component is, in fact, the one that is the superior service.

Now I have a bit of a sad, or is it just typical bureaucracy, story for you. I know we all remember the two firefights that took place during my first patrol. Colonel Rey and Captain Bunt actually submitted three award recommendations for me as a result of that day. I'm not sure how much you know about American awards, but I'll talk about them anyway. The first one was a Purple Heart which is awarded for injuries as a result of combat. Guess who the only person not to receive one for that day was. That's right. Me. Brigade headquarters said that my head wound was because I banged my own head on the 240 machine gun and not because I was knocked silly by a bullet to the head. They also said the whiplash to my neck was not really an injury (even though it still hurts months later). Crazy, huh? I'm not going to whine about it, though.

The next award, submitted by Lieutenant Colonel Rey himself and, he says, with some kind words from you, as well, was for a Silver Star, which is the third highest combat award the Army has. This is awarded for gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States. Colonel Rey showed me the write up and it was very complimentary. He even let me keep a copy of it. Part of the narrative said, "Without regard for his own safety and when all others in his patrol were wounded and out of action, Specialist Morgan repeatedly stood alone against a force of over thirty insurgents" and "killed sixteen of the enemy" while also "saving the lives of all the men in his patrol." It then goes on to talk about how I secured the area, administered first aid, called for help, pulled security until help arrived, and mentions the vital intelligence you found at the scene.

After all that, brigade headquarters did decide to approve an award, but a downgraded one: a certificate of appreciation signed by the brigade commander, Brigadier General Stuart Rodleaver. Their stated reason: I'm just a specialist, and "a staff puke," (not the official words they used, but the gist of it anyway) at that. There's no way I could be worthy of a silver star. That's the 84th Brigade for you. Ha ha.

The last award recommendation no one could refuse. It was for a cCombat Action Badge or CAB. The requirements for that are simply to engage the enemy in combat. The actual regulation also says "or be engaged by the enemy" but, thankfully, the 180th Armor has been a bit stricter in its interpretation of the rules and has treated it more like the infantry version of the award, the Combat Infantry Badge (CIB). That award requires actual combat against the enemy and there is no doubt that happened that day. Well, one for three isn't bad.

In a way, this is a good thing. When I was about to get on the plane to fly over here, I told my parents there were three things I didn't want: a CAB, a Purple Heart, and the Medal of Honor (our highest combat award). I think I was actually fibbing about the CAB, but I certainly was telling the truth about the Medal of Honor. More often than not, that is awarded posthumously.

Well, we finally did fly out of Mahmudiyah and, about twenty minutes later, landed in a completely different world. This place, CSC - or Convoy Support Center - Scania, is a giant truck stop in the middle of the desert. It has about as many people on it as FOB Mahmudiyah did, but spread over about four times the area. It also has not had any enemy activity on it for about two years, according to what I have heard. We actually walk around with unloaded weapons, without body armor, and wearing patrol caps or boonie hats. It's unbelievable. The only real downside that I see is it's a salute zone. I guess you can't win them all.

I had heard about people buying things from local markets in Mahmudiyah, but never had the opportunity to try it myself. That is totally different here. There is a market just outside the gate. In fact, it is a significant part of the local economy. I'll tell a story about it to give you a better idea.

Remember that comment about no enemy activity? Well, the last attack on this place was a mortar round landing in the camp about two years ago. The camp commander at the time decided to shut down all economic activity with the local population. He kicked out all the local national workers, shut down the market at the gate, and told the town's sheik that he would not deal with anyone in the town until he could assure the safety of his soldiers.

Two days later, the sheik drove up to the front gate in his car. He stopped, got out, and asked the gate guards if he could speak to the camp commander. The commander came out to see him a few minutes later. The sheik said he had a present for him. He opened the back door to the car and showed him the mortar tube and rifles of the men who had attacked the camp. He also pulled out a burlap sack and held it open. Inside were the heads of three men. The sheik said the rest of the three men were in the trunk. He then asked if the commander would open the market again and rehire his citizens. The commander agreed. There have been no attacks since that day.

I have another story about that market. My days here are nowhere near as busy as they were in Mahmudiyah. I have much more free time than I did before and have to find something to do - like writing long emails. On my second day here, I went to the market to look around. All we have to do when going there is sign out at the gate and load a magazine in our rifles (without loading a round in the chamber); we then sign back in and clear our weapons when we return. There is all manner of interesting stuff out there, from cigars and pirated movies to local knick knacks. One thing I noticed was that many of the vendors were asking for simple sundry items from inside the camp, like hair gel and Pringles potato crisps. Even perfume for their wives.

I went back and asked if there was any restriction against trading with the vendors. No one knew of any such restriction so I decided to try it. The next day, I sent to the little exchange on the camp and bought ten little jars of hair gel for ninety-five cents each and ten tubes of salt-and-vinegar Pringles for seventy-five cents each. So that was a total investment of seventeen dollars (there is no sales tax in a military exchange). I had no duty at all the next day so I went out to the market the next morning.

I haggled with those guys for the next two hours as I walked up and down that line of booths. By the end of it, I had exhausted my supply of goodies, selling the gel for three dollars and the Pringles for two, had a list of requests for other things, and had traded some of my stuff for some of their wares. I had thirty-two dollars, three cigars, and five DVDs in my backpack when I returned. I decided I was onto something.

The next day, I went out with twice as much hair gel and Pringles, plus two bottles of perfume, five bars of soap, two deodorant sticks, and five FastBreak bars. I tried to move the candy first since they would melt. I was in luck since one of the people running a booth was a little guy of about eleven or twelve years old. He was all kinds of excited over the candy and I sold him all five for four dollars (a profit of only a dollar fifty). The kid was so happy about the chocolate bars that he hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek (I was high as a kite with happiness myself for the rest of the day). He then ate two of them while chatting with me and had finished them all by the time I left. He had a dab of chocolate on his cheek and I wish I had my camera with me at the time because it would have made for a cute picture. I told Sergeant Major Wagner about my coup at the market the next day and he said I was the only person he knew who could walk out to such a place and return with more money than when he left.

Talking of money reminds me of a conversation you and I had while we were having cigars one night in Mahmudiyah. You had mentioned that you thought Aadam Farid was being controlled and financed by someone else. Did you ever find out who that was? I sometimes wonder if that person is going to be a problem again in the future.

That is certainly enough of my rambling for now. I think I'll close out this email for now. There will be a lot more time for additional messages in the weeks and months to come. I have six more months before this rotation is complete so expect more of these.

Thanks again for keeping me in the loop. I look forward to hearing from you again soon.

Sincerely,

Daniel J. Morgan

xxxxxxxxxx

21 July 1983

Richmond, Virginia

The chill down Penance's spine was not a result of the heavy air conditioning in the museum, though that didn't help. There was another Immortal present in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and it was putting a damper on his enjoyment of the works, to be sure. He took a step closer to the adult nearest him, not that he knew the person, just for additional concealment, and turned around. His expression turned to one of sheer boredom as he scanned the room.

 _Don't pay any attention to me. I'm just another disinterested schoolboy dragged into a museum by his parents when he'd rather be out playing in the summer sunshine._

The apathetic act faded quickly as his eyes fell onto the object of his search. The frown was soon replaced by a true grin. Twenty meters away from him, and approaching fast, he saw an old friend. He rushed to meet him.

"Tristan!" he said in greeting, allowing his friend to engulf him in a hug. "How in the world did you find me here?"

"I didn't," admitted the other child Immortal. "I just came in to get out of the heat and look at the art and felt someone nearby. I'm so glad it's you. I haven't seen you in ages."

"More like nine years," said Penance, stepping out of the hug.

"Semantics," commented Tristan, sticking out his tongue.

"This is pretty far north for you, isn't it?"

"Kinda," admitted Tristan. "I just started walking one day, you know, wandering about, and I ended up here."

Laughing, Penance nodded. "Yeah, I know how that happens. I've been there."

"How about you?"

"Pretty much the same story. I don't think I'll stay here much longer, though. I'm thinking about going a little farther north. Maybe Maryland. Baltimore sounds nice."

"Heh, that's what you said the last time we were together."

"Yeah, but I think I mean it this time." Penance put an arm around his friend's shoulders and walked with him to the painting he had been viewing. He pointed to it. "You see that?" he said. "It's _La Bataille des Centaures contre les Lapithes, The Battle of the Centaurs and the Lapiths._ Somehow, I think it tells the story of us."

"Of Immortals?"

"Sort of, like our eternal fight with each other, but there's a hidden aspect no one notices." Penance pointed to three figures at the far right of the painting. "See those guys there? No one really sees them. They just pay attention to the battle at the front of the painting, but these three guys at the back and in the darkness, that no one notices, are fighting just as hard, or maybe more so. That's us. The child Immortals. We have our own fight."

Tristan shivered under Penance's arm. "That's deep."

"Yeah, it is."

Tristan turned his head to Penance. "How do you fight a creature with four legs and the body of a man? It's stronger and faster than you."

"See what I mean? That's the same problem we have. Our opponents are always stronger and faster than us."

"So how do you fight them?"

"I've only come up with one way over the years," Penance whispered.

"What's that?"

Penance tapped his forehead, smiling. His eyes flashed brightly as he spoke, a trace of laughter in his voice. "Be just as fast, maybe faster, but definitely be smarter."

END OF ACT III

THE END


End file.
